


The Hound and the Hen

by PastelWonder



Category: Spy (2015)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-04-06 01:04:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 44,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4202019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PastelWonder/pseuds/PastelWonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick Ford makes a habit out of doing things people say he can't do: walk through fire, water ski blindfolded, take up piano at a late age, woo Susan Cooper out of the arms of Bradley wanker Fine...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Never Get A Second Chance To Make A First Impression

The first time he sees her, she's at her desk.

 

Typing…something, he doesn't know what the fuck these handlers do, besides Google hot wiring how-to's and intercept satellite signals and shit. He's not a desk lackey, after all.

 

She's sitting there tip-tapping on the keyboard, breasts jiggling a little with each stroke, and she looks so… soft.

 

_Fuck._

 

He's always liked his birds a bit on the plumper side - _more meat for the feasting an' all_ \- and this one is all long soft curls and dimples and a tight little cardigan.

 

He tugs the lapels of his suit jacket straight before he saunters to her desk. She greets him with a wide, friendly smile; he pictures those plump lips around his cock as he props a hip against her desk.

 

"Haven't seen you 'round 'ere before. I 'ave a photographic memory - I once 'ad to find my way out of a booby-trapped labyrinth using a mental image of an 18th century map tattooed on burlesque dancer. Rick Ford."

 

Eyebrows raised, she blinks a few times - _battin' her lashes at him and all_ \- and seems at loss for words.

 

"Susan Cooper," she manages, offering her plump hand. "Wow - that's… wow."

 

He takes it, squeezing firmly and flexing his bicep (sure, he's in a suit, but it's the principle of the thing).

 

Her breasts press together and jiggle a little as they shake hands, and he doesn't hide the fact that he notices. She blushes, flustered, and clears her throat when he doesn't let go.

 

"So, you're a - uh - agent, Mr. Ford?" she asks, tongue darting out to nervously lick her bottom lip.

 

Oh yeah, she fancies him alright.

 

He smirks, puffing his chest out a bit.

 

"Miss Coopah," he growls, leaning in a little, "I'm _the_ agent. I-"

 

"Oh, Ford, give it a rest, hm? Cooper isn't interested in your harrowing escapades. Are you, Coop?" Bradley Fine mocks as he sidles up to them. He flashes them both a dazzling smile, but there's a sneer around its edges that raises Ford's hackles.

 

"What, Fancy, no underground ballet dancing syndicate for you to infiltrate? Shame, isn't it? What ever will you do with all those nancy leotards?"

 

"Cooper, I see you've met the nefarious Rick Ford. What he lacks in wit he makes up for in brute."

 

Ford feels a tug; Cooper is surreptitiously trying to remove her hand from his. 

 

With a defiant glance at Fine, he drags her hand to his lips and kisses her knuckles. His chest swells when her breath hitches and her mouth makes a perfect little 'O'.

 

"Miss Coopah," he growls, letting her hand slip from his with a roguish grin.

 

"A-agent Ford."

 

_She fuckin' wants me._

 

If he knocks her coffee cup off her desk as he leaves, it's entirely intentional.


	2. Two for the Show

The next time they meet, they're outside the round table room before a debrief.

 

She's in a blue dress and leggings and foxy little boots.

 

_Wearin' her little "shag me" booties, is she?_

 

He opens the door just enough for her to squeeze between him and the doorframe.

 

"I'll just - ah - if you could…" She points past him with her pen.

 

"Ladies first."

 

"Oh! Well, that's - polite... Let's see… try to - skootch on by - bit of a tight squeeze!"

 

She winces at her own choice of words - _been fantasizin' about him, obviously_ \- and avoids eye contact as she side-shuffles past him.

 

He mentally congratulates himself for splashing on a smidge of _Serge Luten_ that morning as her tits brush his chest.

 

"Miss Coopah," he purrs.

 

"A-agent Ford. Nice to see you again."

 

She risks a glance at him as she settles herself into a chair in the corner.

 

He winks at her as he takes his, smoothing the front of his turtleneck down his abs.

 

"Pleasures all mine."

 

"Hah, well you…" Her eyes dart from his abs to his face to the ceiling. "Such a kidder…"

 

_Bend you over this bloody table and show you just 'ow serious I -_

 

"Ah, you found it, Coop! That's my girl." Fine strolls in, all patronizing tones and schmooze, and takes the seat opposite Ford, effectively blocking his view of Cooper.

 

_Wanker._

 

"'eard there's a mission to uncover a black market dildo ring, and you're just the arsehole to go deep."

 

"Charming as ever, Ford. You remember my mentee, Agent Susan Cooper?" Fine swivels and gestures at Cooper like she's a delightfully foreign piece of artwork. "I'm quickly finding her irreplaceable."

 

Cooper beams.

 

_For the love of Christ-_

 

Ford snorts.

 

"Oh, she carry 'round your nose powder and douche for you, Fancy?" _Wait - mentee…_

 

"She's my eyes and ears in the field." Giving her a sappy look over his shoulder, Fine adds, "I'd be lost without her."

 

"Ooh, gosh," she flaps her hand, "No no, I -"

 

"Gentlemen!"

 

Fine and Ford stand in unison as the Director of Operations marches in, snapping the door closed behind him.

 

"Supervisory Special Agent Whitaker, this is my new mentee, Agent Susan Cooper," Fine simpers. He motions for Susan to stand.

 

Susan is half-way out of her chair when Whitaker, without looking up from where he's arranging his legal pad, holds up a hand.

 

"No need. Welcome to the team, Suzanne. I am sure your skills are - adequate."

 

Ford's lip begins to curl around a retort, but Cooper recovers with a quick breath and a sunny smile.

 

"Yes, sir. I am very excited to-"

 

"That's good. Very good. Gentlemen, take your seats! There's trouble in the Ukraine - a nuclear physicist by the name of Oleg Lavrentiev went missing last month…"

 

Ford glances over Fine's shoulder and sees Cooper hurriedly shuffling the files in her lap, preparing to take notes. There's a dim smile plastered on her face, and her eyes are glued to her papers.

 

"Oh, Suzanne?" Whitaker says suddenly, remembering something.

 

Cooper pops like a champagne cork out of her chair; it falls back with the force of her rise to attention with a loud _thwack_!

 

"Yes sir!"

 

"Order us some lunch, would you? Sandwiches, I think. Roast beef on rye for me; no mayo or crust."

 

Cooper looks helplessly at Fine, who hesitates for just a moment before giving her a 1000 watt smile. "Turkey on whole wheat! No mustard on mine, please."

 

The look Ford gives him makes Fine visibly flinch.

 

"No mustard," Cooper dutifully repeats under her breath, fumbling for her pen and trying to hide her flush behind her hair.

 

"And for you, Agent Ford?" She doesn't quite meet his eyes.

 

He clenches his hand on the table top; Fine shifts nervously in his seat.

 

"Nothin' for me, luv."

 

_Fuckin' pricks._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments! I adore this pair - and was shipping them from the moment I first laid eyes on them.
> 
> This chapter was inspired by Rick Fords, "Ok - thanks lunch lady."


	3. Third Time's The Charm, Part I

Opportunity doesn't strike until he's back from three months deep cover in Ghana. The contrast between humid African rainforest and DC winter is made sharper by the lavish company holiday party.

 

_Standin' round listenin' to these borin' fuckin' twits yakkin' bout their borin' fuckin' jobs and their borin' fuckin' lives…_

 

The bodies of boy soldiers piled ten-high along the roadside flashes in his mind. He tips another generous splash of whiskey into his mug of eggnog.

 

_Least there's a lovely view._

 

Across the small hotel ballroom, Susan Cooper is in drunken revelry - punctuating her anecdotes with exaggerated pantomimes and snort-laughing so hard he can hear her all the way from over here. Her crowd of colleagues is in fits of laughter; the tall horse-faced one is barking like a seal and he recognizes Sharon's robotic "Ha ha ha" amidst the din.

 

There's a silly little string of colored lights blinking around her neck, and a generous heap of rum balls rolling about on the plate she's holding. She has a rosy flush, and her breasts bounce with each new peal of laughter.

 

He imagines kissing her pretty plump mouth as he goes balls-deep into her.

 

"Oi mate, let me get somethin' a bit stronger."

 

The man standing at the cocktail table next to him startles.

 

"I-I'm not a waiter. I work in the IT department-"

 

Ford grips him by the lapel of his cheap sports coat and hauls him closer.

 

"Did I ask what you do for a livin'?"

 

"No-no sir!"

 

Ford releases him with a shove and holds out his glass for the other man to take.

 

After a second of hesitation, the man bolts.

 

"Christ, what's a bloke gotta do to get a drink 'round 'ere?"

 

"Oh, lighten up, Scrooge!" Fine, looking like a complete poof in a white tuxedo and red bowtie, sambas past him, drunkenly twirling a tittering Karen Walker. "Where's your Christmas spirit, Ford?"

 

Ford wonders if he shoves his glass down Fine's throat, what he'd die from first: asphyxiation or trauma.

 

They prance away together in a hideous imitation of a waltz, cackling like a pair of hyenas.

 

The laughter across the ballroom sputters and dies; he notices Cooper's rueful frown at the two of them. Horse-face rubs her arm, saying something with an encouraging smile. Cooper sighs.

 

_What the fuck does she see in that stupid wanker?_

 

He moves along the periphery of the ballroom, watching her say her goodbyes. Horse-face is tugging imploringly at the sleeve of Cooper's sweater dress, but Cooper is already shouldering her purse and gathering up her gifts. With a cheery wave to her coworkers - and a meaningful squeeze of Horse-face's hand - she's weaving her way to coat check.

 

_Sod it -  now or never._

 

In a casual move, he flings his glass onto the dance floor just as Fine and Walker cha-cha past him; it lands and shatters. Fine doesn't have time to react, and slips in the puddle of glass shards and eggnog, grabbing a handful of Walker's cocktail dress to catch himself and dragging her down with him. She lands with an un-ladylike squawk on top of Fine.

 

Adjusting the cuffs of his suit jacket, Ford saunters past the stunned gaggle of lookers-on.

 

He spots the waiter - _IT nerd, whatever the fuck_ \- from earlier standing agape, tumbler of gin trembling in one hand.

 

_One for the road._

 

He snatches the drink and downs it in one swig. The other man makes a choked noise, eyes bulging out of his head.

 

Ford smacks his lips.

 

"Aah! Thanks, mate."

 

He drops the empty glass into the man's hand and tucks a ten dollar note inside it.

 

"Keep the change," he growls as he thumps the man's chest.


	4. Third Time's The Charm, Part II

He finds her negotiating the stairs outside the hotel lobby one-at-a-time, one hand on the rail to steady herself, heart-shaped ass jiggling a bit with every step.

 

_Like takin’ candy from a babe..._

 

He smoothes his tie as he trots after her, timing it so that he catches her at the bottom step. He snakes an arm around her waist, squeezing a handful of her hip as he hauls her against his side.

 

"I've got you, sweet'eart. Just lean on - Fuck!"

 

His head snaps back and he stumbles backward. The backs of his Ferragamos hit the concrete riser behind him, and he falls - _fuckin’ ‘ell_ \- onto his ass.

 

Blinking rapidly, he gropes for the railing with one hand and cups his nose with the other. His eyes are watering furiously and he can't make out his attacker.

 

"Coopah? Coopah - get down!"

 

_Goin' to kill this mother fuckin' son-of-a -_

 

"Ford?!"

 

_God, she’s terrified -_

 

Snarling, he clambers to his feet and moves into a boxing stance. _Shake it off, mate-_

 

"S'ok, I'm right 'ere. Just get back behind me!"

 

Cooper's packages are strewn across the sidewalk and she's frozen in place; both arms are extended, her purse is swinging from her elbow, half the contents dumped on the ground. She's aiming straight for him and she's gripping -

 

"Mace? Jesus bloody Christ, Coopah, are you goin' to mace me?"

 

She squints suspiciously in dim light of the streetlamps.

 

"A-agent Ford, s'that you?"

 

_Jesus, she's completely pissed…_

 

"'Course it's me, you daft cow! Put that bloody thing away before you 'urt yourself!"

 

He touches the back of his hand to his nose - no blood. _Well that's a small blessin', innit it?_

 

"You see which way 'e went?"

 

"Mother butler, Ford - you scared the bejesus out of me! I didn't realize it was you and I just sort of - you know -went with my instincts and I - " She swings her fist through the air. "Pow!"

 

_Wait one fuckin' minute…_

 

"You're the one who punched me in the fuckin' nose?"

 

"Yes! No - I didn't know it was - you shouldn't have snuck up on me like tha-"

 

He throws his head back in a roar of laughter. She flinches a little at how loud it is.

 

"Was you, then? Well, I'll be a fuckin' monkey's uncle! You've got a mean little left jab, don't you, minx?"

 

"Well, I -" She tucks her hair behind her ear, smiling self-consciously. "I had some momentum going, you know, and I just - " She smacks her fist into her palm and giggles.

 

_Cheeky little bird._

 

Chuckling, he pinches the bridge of his nose; his eyes sting in the cold night air and he hisses.

 

"Oh, Ford, jeez… I am so sorry."

 

He jerks a bit as her warm little hands cup his jaw.

 

Tilting his face to catch the light, she clucks her tongue and grimaces. Her breath is warm; her breasts press against his chest as she pulls him in for a closer look. "Ford…"

 

He can feel himself getting hard.

 

"S'alright, really. Took a lead pipe to the face once when I was in deep cover in an underground Korean fight club. Part of their initiation ritual. 'ad to set my own nose with a chopstick and a binder clip."

 

She bites her lips together - _can feel 'er laughin and what is so fuckin' funny_ \- and runs her finger down the length of his nose, giving the end a gentle _tap_.

 

"See? Indestructible," he murmurs, lost in her wide, glossy green eyes. He grips her loosely by the hips.

 

"Gotta get home." She taps the end of his nose again and gives him a big, dimpled smile.

 

"What's your hurry, luv?" he murmurs, dipping his head.

 

"Ha! _Luv_." She pokes him in the chest and whispers knowingly, "You're English."

 

_Plastered as all…_

 

"You like that, when I call you _luv_?" He runs his hand through her hair - _soft as mink_ \- and lowers the timber of his voice. " 'ow about _darlin'_? Or _sweet'eart_?"

 

_Just give us a kiss -_

 

"Do you know where the train is?"

 

"The - wait, what?"

 

She snickers, fingers playing with the collar of his suit jacket, and gives him a _you're-so-cute-when-you're-dumb_ look.

 

"The _train_. You know, choo-choo!"

 

"I know what a fuckin' train is - what you want with it?"

 

She has the nerve to look exasperated with him. "To go home, Ford!"

 

"Oh, no. No no no. You're not takin' the train in this fuckin' state."

 

She pushes him - _Christ, she's stout_ \- and hikes her purse up her shoulder.

 

"I am taking - _hiccup_ \- the train."

 

"No you're fuckin' not. You're goin' to stand right here and mind yourself while I pick this fuckin’ shit up, and then you're coming with me."

 

_And I'm going to bang you till you can't remember your name, let 'lone that wanker Fine's…_

 

"Alright, alright! Good gravy, you are such a Pushy Peter…"

 

He leads her to the hotel parking garage, her little hand tucked in nice and tight at his elbow.

 

When he pops the boot of his car, she lets out a high-pitched squeal.

 

"This is your car?!"

 

His chest swells with pride and his mouth twitches to hide his grin.

 

He sniffs, casually tugging one of his cuffs straight.

 

"One of 'em, yeah."

 

"Oh my good gosh, it's gorgeous!"

 

She touches the emblem on the boot.

 

"An Audi A8 - these things are like, eighty thousand dollars, Ford!"

 

"They start 'bout there."

 

The way she’s looking at him now, he’d pay eight hundred thousand dollars.

 

He presses his thumb against the passenger door handle. The door unlocks and opens with a quiet click.

 

He offers her his hand.

 

"Miss Coopah."

 

She’s giddy with excitement as she slides in, looking at up him through her lashes and beaming like she’s won the lotto.

 

_Would set myself on fire if she asked for a light..._

 

“Ah-ah, watch your ‘ead, sweet’eart.”

 

“Oh Ford,” she breathes as he climbs in, running her fingers over the door panel and tracing the stitching on the dashboard.

 

His cock twitches when she rubs her palm over the head of the gear shift.

 

"This is _nice_."

 

_You 'ave no bloody idea -_

 

Slowly, he reaches his left arm across her.

 

“Don’t want you tumblin’ out, now,” he rumbles.

 

Her eyes dart from his hand to door lock to his face.

 

“I - think that’s an automatic -”

 

“Can never be too careful."

 

The leather groans as he leans back in the driver’s seat. He can hear her breathing, watches the rise and fall of her breasts under her sweater dress.

 

_So fuckin' sexy._

 

Resting his left arm leisurely on the steering wheel, he drapes the other across the back of her headrest.

 

She swallows audibly.

 

He lifts a bit of her hair from her shoulder, twirls it around his finger.

 

“So, Miss Coopah - my place or yours?”

 

She jerks, giving his hand in her hair a sharp _slap!_

 

“Jiminy Christmas, Ford! I thought you were offering me a ride home - not, not-” she sputters, scrambling for the door handle.

 

_God, he loves it when they play hard to get._

 

“Alright, alright! Easy, luv. I’ll take you ‘ome.”

 

He starts the engine before she can open the door, shifts into reverse.

 

She huffs, smoothing her fringe out of her eyes, and crosses her arms over her chest.

 

“No funny business, buddy!”

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he purrs, fingers brushing her thigh as he shifts into drive.

 

“Where’s ‘ome, then?”

 

“You know, I kind of don’t want to tell you! You're a little low on the Trust-o-Meter right now -”

 

He chuckles darkly, gunning the engine a bit. He hears her breath hitch, sees her eyes light with excitement.

 

She reaches for her seatbelt, holding up a finger at him.

 

“I’ve got it, thank you. 1127 South Quincy Street.”

 

They roar out of the parking deck onto Orme Street.

 

“Wait, don’t we need to go right, towards Columbia Pike?”

 

“I drove a Humvee from one end of the Kumasi rainforest to the other without a map, using the 'ands of my wrist watch and a banana leaf as a compass.”

 

“How in the heck would that -”

 

He guns it through a yellow light, shifting down and whipping through a right turn onto Joyce Street.

 

When she shrieks in delight, he’s sure it's the best thing he's heard in years.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank all of you for your wonderful comments and your support. This chapter will be three parts - this is the second installment. 
> 
> Apologies for taking a bit to post this - Ford wouldn't stop flexing for Cooper long enough to say his lines. *rolls eyes* Of course, her giggling and battin' her eyelashes an' all didn't help much either...


	5. Third Time's The Charm, Part III

Half an hour later, they’re in North Old Town, riding up Eades Street.

 

“If we - uh - just make a Uturn and take Fort Scott… Or maybe make a left up here at 23rd Street -”

 

He holds out a finger to shush her.

 

“Thanks - I know where I’m goin’. Just trying to avoid the construction, s’all.”

 

“Construction?"

 

_Soberin’ up a bit, are we?_

 

“Ok. You know what, Ford? Just pull over right here. “ She points at a petrol station.

 

“Easy, luv. I’ll find it - give us a bloody-”

 

“If we’re going to cruise around all night taking,” she makes air quotes, “ _construction detours_ , we’re going to need more gas.” She points to the dash - _how the fuck ‘ad he missed the E light_ \- “And I need to use the restroom. Now.”

 

_Fair enough._

 

He makes sure to pull up to the pump closest to the convenient store.

 

She’s out the car before he’s halfway around the front bumper to open her door.

 

“Oi!” he calls after her, hands on his hips. “Don’t even think about makin’ a run for it, Miss Coopah.”

 

“Afraid you won’t be able to catch me, Agent Ford?” she shoots back over her shoulder with a lopsided smile.

 

The thought sends a jolt of electricity straight to his cock.

 

_Just you try it, darlin’._

 

He stretches luxuriously as the petrol pumps, listening with satisfaction to the tell-tale _pop_ in his joints. The tension thaws and melts out of muscle and bone, and he feels loose, light on his feet.

 

It’s a clear night; the horizon is tinged with the rusty haze of light pollution and smog, but high up above, the sky is dark and he can make out of the pinpricks of stars.

 

Remembering the way she looked tonight - tits bubbling over her little sweater dress, laughing and smiling with her coworkers - warms him to the bone.

 

A lazy smile spreads across his face as he replaces the pump handle, and he wonders casually what’s taking her so long.

 

Squinting in the florescent lighting of the gas station, he finds her by the pastry case, a pair of tongs in hand, daintily plucking up a doughnut and popping it into the parchment bag she’s balancing on the lip of the case.

 

Tucking his hands in his pockets, he leans against the register counter and gives her a low, soft wolf-whistle.

 

She glances up, tongs poised in midair.

 

He waggles his eyebrows at her suggestively.

 

Shaking her head, she makes a disgusted noise and tries to hide her grin behind her hair.

 

“Those tiny _tartare de filet de boeuf_ just don’t have much staying power,” she explains with a self-conscious smile as she joins him at the register.

 

He let’s his gaze wander over her openly.

 

“Bloke can appreciate a bird with a healthy appetite.”

 

Blushing, she digs busily through her purse for her wallet. “Well, I wouldn’t call it ‘healthy’-”

 

He hands the cashier a twenty note. “Add another creme-filled and two coffees, mate.”

 

“Oh, I - thank you. For the doughnut. And the coffee.”

 

“You’re welcome, Miss Coopah.”

 

When they leave, he double-times it to open the car door for her, holding her coffee as she settles in.

 

“Mind the leather.”

 

She snorts, balancing her doughnuts carefully in her lap as she settles her coffee into the cup holder. “Men and their cars.”

 

He takes them to a spot on the riverbank where the lights on Marbury Point glitter in the water. He leaves the car on for a bit of heat; the engine purrs softly in the background.

 

They eat their pastries in companionable silence for a while, stealing glances at each other between bites.

 

“Rick Ford, super spy, eats eclairs,” she teases as she dabs her mouth with a napkin. “Wait until I tell the girls in the basement.”

 

_Girls in the basement talk ‘bout ‘im, aye?_

 

“A man likes a bite of somethin’ sweet every once and a while.”

 

She snort-laughs.

 

“God, you are so cheesy,” she says affectionately around a mouthful of doughnut. “What’s it like?”

 

“What - havin’ this incredible knack for humor? S’a blessin’ an’ a curse, I suppose.”

 

“No!” She throws her head back and belly-laughs. God, how can he make her do that again?

 

“No - what’s it like being a spy?”

 

He looks out at the dark water. The eyes of the starved, frightened women in the Kumasi forest stare back at him.

 

He rubs his chin.

 

“You know. Fast cars, sexy women, blowin’ shit up and killin’ bad guys.” He offers a wry half-smile. “S’just like the films.”

 

She nods, seeming to understand when he doesn’t say anything else.

 

_Less you know, sweet’eart, the better._

 

“So - going back to England for the holidays?”

 

“Might swing by and see my mum before I take off again.”

 

“Where’s your mom?”

 

“Derbyshire.”

 

“And your dad?”

 

_Just full of questions, isn’t she?_

 

He shrugs. “What of ‘im?”

 

“Not in the picture, huh?” She looks down at her doughnut. “Mine neither.”

 

“Oh yah?”

 

“Yeah, he took off when I was three. I don’t remember a lot about him, except that he was really tall and smelled like Nicorette and soldering iron. He was a welder.”

 

“Don’t know what my dad did, ‘part from gamble and drink. ‘e came ‘round every once in a while when I was a lad - used to bring a sweet or somethin’ and let me take a puff of his cigar. Nice enough sort of bloke. Can’t remember the last time I saw ‘im.”

 

“That must’ve been hard, to have him in and out like that.”

 

Something in her tone sets him on edge. Like she’s trying to work something out, only she’s doing it very carefully.

 

He rubs his chin again, looking out across the water.

 

“Nah - like I said, don’t ‘ardly remember. My mum used to say I was ‘is spittin’ image. When I was makin’ poor marks or gettin’ into scruffs or smartin’ off at the mouth, she’d say, ‘You’re your father’s son.’”

 

He says it with a laugh, but the way she’s studying his profile makes him shift in his seat.

 

“How ‘bout you, darlin’? Going ‘ome to see your family?”

 

She smooths the crinkles in the empty parchment bag.

 

“Sure, I’ll make it up to Wisconsin to see everyone. Christmas just isn’t Christmas without a game of ‘hide Grammy’s peppermint Schnapps’ and an hour of Mom’s unsolicited relationship advice.”

 

“She remarried, your mum?”

 

Cooper starts folding the bag into thirds.

 

“Oh yeah, she remarried when I was eight. My stepdad, Jim, is a man of few words. No words, actually. I think I remember him saying, ‘Good luck, Sally’, once.”

 

“Who’s Sally?”

 

“Me. That was at my high school graduation.”

 

“Jesus, Coopah,” he laughs, scrubbing a hand over his face. _Don’t we make a fuckin’ pair..._

 

“Hey, look - a crane.”

 

She holds out her hand; in the palm is a little paper bird.

 

He thumbs a bit of jelly filling from the corner of her mouth.

 

“You’re a bit of an odd bird, aren’t you Coopah?”

 

She blinks up at him with those big green eyes and does she have any idea what it does to him when she looks at him like that?

 

“You know what they say, ‘Birds of a feather flock together.’”

 

“Whatsay I take you ‘ome now?”

 

“Sure.” She yawns, cradling her paper crane to her chest.

 

He shifts into reverse, throws his arm over the back of her headrest to watch over his shoulder as he backs out.

 

Her sideways look catches his eye as he turns to shift into drive.

 

“What?”

 

“Seems a shame, though. I’ve never been in one of these before.”

 

Her fingers play on the head of his gear shift.

 

“I’ve always wondered how fast they go.”

 

_She’s gonna be the fuckin’ death of me…_

 

Fifteen minutes later, their roaring down George Washington Memorial, Cooper whooping in delight.

 

_____________________

 

The sun’s creeping over the horizon when he pulls into her complex.

 

She takes his hand as she climbs out of the car, blinking in the morning light and stumbling a little with exhaustion. He keeps his hand on the small of her back as she trudges up the stairs to her flat.

 

He waits, arms crossed and leaning casually beside the door, watching her fumble through her purse for her keys.

 

“Dang nabbit, where are those - aha!”

 

She staggers over the threshold and turns, offering him a weary smile.

 

“Thanks for everything, Ford.”

 

He straightens and braces himself with either hand on the doorframe. His face looms just inches above hers.

 

“ 'ad a good time with me, did ya?”

 

“Ford -” she warns tiredly.

 

“Come out with me tonight, Miss Coopah. Let me take you to dinner.”

 

She rests her forehead on the doorjamb, peering up at him with hooded eyes. “If I say yes, will you leave?”

 

He smirks. _Wearin’ ‘er down, mate._

 

“Pick you up at seven.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments and kudos! Hope you enjoy ;-)


	6. Can't Get Enough Of Your Love, Babe

"I'm bringin' 'er round seven-thirty. You'll 'ave it all set up?"

 

He tucks in his dress shirt, smooths over the buttons, straightens the collar.

 

"Si, Señor. Everyting will be jus like jou ask me."

 

He cradles the phone between his ear and shoulder and opens his cuff links drawer- where the fuck are his onyx Yurmans?

 

"And the flowers?"

 

"Si, si, es all perfecto, Señor. We look forward to see jou and jour Señorita."

 

He slips into his suit jacket and inspects his reflection.

 

The charcoal Armani was the right choice.

 

"Gracias, mate."

 

Brushing a bit of invisible lint off his sleeves, he snaps on his Rolex and examines his profile in the mirror.

 

_Nah, yellow gold's too flashy - she won’t like that. Definitely the Montblanc with this suit._

 

He splashes on a bit of _Tom Ford_ and his gives himself a last once-over. Bracing one hand on the mirror frame and propping the other hand on his hip, he tries on a devilish grin.

 

"Evenin', Miss Coopah," he purrs.

 

_Oh yah, she won't know what 'it 'er._

 

He swipes his access card and takes the lift to his garage bay.

 

_Now the 'ardest part._

 

Walking the row of vehicles, he pauses in front of the Cayenne. Porsche is always a good choice, but he remembers the way she'd shrieked in delight when he pushed one-twenty in the A8. The thought makes him grin like a fool.

 

The 750i is a contender, but it doesn't really grab him as he passes.

 

The Streetfighter 848 is a thought - he imagines her sitting behind him, arms wrapped around his waist, screaming in his ear to go faster. Bit nippy for the bike, though, and he'd have to change again.

 

It doesn't hit him until he passes it, but when it does, it seems like the most obvious choice. He chuckles to himself.

 

_She'll be eatin' outta your 'and, mate._

 

______________________

 

He takes the stairs to her flat two at a time, pausing at her door to take a deep breath and straighten his lapels.

 

Bracing one hand on the door frame, he raps smartly on her door.

 

Hearing the lock turn in the strike, he props his hand on his hip and grins.

 

The door opens, and the smile slides off his face, the air leaves his lungs, and -

 

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, Coopah -"

 

The slinky blue evening dress hugs her body from breasts to hips, and there's a bit of sparkle right at her tits that shimmers every time she moves.

 

Smiling shyly, she reaches up and closes his mouth with a finger under his chin. "Careful, you'll catch flies like that."

 

He swallows, throat working, and tries to push out of his mind the image of kneeling in front of her right here and lifting her dress up over his head -

 

"You look… God, you're fuckin' gorgeous."

 

She giggles. "Thank you." Looking him over, she smooths the collar of his dress shirt, a pretty flush staining her cheeks. "You look very handsome yourself, Agent Ford."

 

_Get it under control, mate._

 

"Shall we?" He offers her his arm, flexing so hard the seam of his jacket sleeve creaks.

 

"Hey, we match!" she notices as they start down the stairs, gesturing between her indigo dress and his midnight blue shirt. She grins. "Great minds think alike."

 

He snorts. "I seriously doubt we're thinkin' the same thing right now, darlin'."

 

She laughs so hard she misses the last step. He catches her with an arm around her waist; his other hand goes up to shield his face in an exaggerated defensive move.

 

"Oh, stop," she giggles, smacking him lightly in the abs with her clutch. "How is your nose, by the way?" she asks, inspecting him closely.

 

"Told you, sweet'eart, indestructible."

 

She reaches up to tap the end of his nose as they turn into the parking lot, and does a double-take.

 

"Ford," she breathes, finger suspended in mid-air. "Is that yours?"

 

His chest puffs out. _  
_

 

He opens the door to the GranTurismo for her, holding her hand as she slides in. She's speechless, eyes wide with wonder. It's all he can do not to click his heels as he rounds the front bumper.

 

"Ever been in one of these?" he asks casually as he clicks in his seatbelt.

 

"Ford, wha- how- " She shakes her head, runs her hands over the dash, the wood paneling of the stereo, the gearshift.

 

He wants to kiss her and kiss her until she looks at him the way she's looking at his Maserati.

 

_Now you know 'ow it feels, darlin'._

 

He gives her a smug smile and asks, "Ready?"

 

She nods mutely, sucking in a breath when he revs the engine.

 

_S'gonna be a lovely evenin'._

 

____________________________________

 

 

He savors the look of confusion on her pretty face as they pull up to the restaurant.

 

"Ford? I don't think this place is open.” She points to the unlit sign and the dark windows.

 

His mouth twitches to hide his grin.

 

"Let's just take a look, shall we?"

 

He opens her door for her, takes her hand as she steps out of the car. He just can't help himself as he tugs her into his arms, dipping his head. She’s so soft, and the feel of her pressed against him sends licks of electricity through his entire body.

 

"You look so beautiful tonight, Miss Coopah. Makes a man feel like he'd do anything for you."

 

"Thank you, Agent Ford-" She clears her throat, leaning away a bit. "Is there a - uh - plan B?" Her eyes dart from his mouth to the restaurant to the street.

 

_No escape route 'ere, darlin'._

 

"Call me Rick."

 

" _Rick_ , is there a plan B? Because I ate lunch at one. You see where I'm going with this?"

 

He gives her a gravelly chuckle as he bends his head.

 

"Just a minute, luv," he growls, dragging her closer.

 

"Oh for heaven's sake, Ford -"

 

"What about _my_ sake, Miss Coopah?"

 

She tries to hide her amusement in an exasperated sigh. Rising onto her tip-toes, her hands on his chest for balance, she murmurs in his ear, “Don’t make me smack you in front of all these people,” she gestures to the passersby on the street, “Rick.”

He can feel himself getting hard.

_Fuck if she won’t ‘ave me on leash, lapping at ‘er -_

“Whatever you say, Miss Coopah,” he purrs, loosening his grip on her hips. She slips out of his grasp, taking the elbow he offers with an approving _pat pat_ on his bicep.

 

“Mr. Ford, welcome!” The hostess, a leggy brunette in a black cocktail dress, teeters out from behind the hostess stand in impossibly high stilettos.

 

"Miranda," he nods in greeting, trying to keep the grin off his face at Cooper’s suspicious glance between the two of them.

 

"And you must be Miss Cooper! Welcome to Oyamel - delicious _cucina Latina_ for the body and the soul.” Miranda does a strange sort of wiggle with her hips, clapping her hands together like a clam shell and finishing with a stamp of her foot, the force of which makes her wobble a bit in her heels.

_What in the fuckin’ hell?_

 

Cooper gapes a little, blinking, then recovers with a tentative smile. “We didn’t know if you were open…”

“Oh, Mr. Ford, you are _such_ a bad man!” Miranda waves her bony wrist and gives him a campy wink. “You are in for a _treat_ , Miss Cooper. Follow me!”

 

There’s a strange… _flutter_ in his gut as the hostess leads them through the reception area into the dining room. He watches Cooper’s face intently, trying to gauge her reaction as her expression flows from apprehension to bewilderment to shock to something he can't quite make out.

 

"Christmas on a cracker, Ford," she whispers. He tightens his arm around her hand. "This is… I..."

 

Every available surface is covered in candles. Their glow reflects in the glossy artwork on the walls, in the glasses and bottles on the mirrored bar, in the polished wood of the empty tables. The house lights are dark; long tendrils of string lights hang at varying lengths from the stamped tin ceiling. In the center of the room, a table is set for two; candlelight flickers in the water decanter and dances across their silverware.

 

“Do you like it?” he asks in a low rumble, annoyed at the tinge of anxiety in his voice. _Course she fuckin’ likes it -_

 

“Ford, I - I…” His heart stops as she searches for the words.

_She fuckin’ ‘ates it, God this was such a stupid fuckin’ idea -_

“...I love it. This is the most beautiful - most incredible - thing anyone has ever - I love it.”

He stuffs his fist into his pocket to keep from pumping it in the air, instead letting out a breathy chuckle. “Knew you would.”

She looks at him, her pretty round eyes shining in the subtle glow, and he thinks this may be the best he’s ever felt.

“You two are such a perfect couple!” Miranda bubbles, giving them a little clam shell clap.

He can barely hear her over the roar in his ears.

  
“Thanks, Miranda. I think I can take it from here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took so long! Not sure when, but at some point this fic became a love letter to my new (and dear) friend, wanderingsmith. 
> 
> *raises glass*
> 
> smith, this one's for you. 
> 
> And to you also, Husband. You are the best beta a girl could ask for.


	7. Getting To Know You, Getting To Know All About You

"…so I'm climbin' fast as I can, 'and-over-'and up this slippery fuckin' fire escape. I see an open window, and I'm thinkin' to myself, _Anythin' is better than tryin’ to climb this shit_. So I jump. I'm 'anging onto the window ledge by my fingernails."

 

He makes bear claws in the air.

 

"I can 'ear the 'enchmen on the street below; there's at least thirty of 'em. All I can think is, _I've got to get inside this fuckin' window_ …"

 

Cooper tilts forward in her chair, hands clenched together in anticipation.

 

"So I pull myself in, sort of arse-over-'ead, you know? And I 'ear this fuckin' sound and I'm thinkin', _What in the fuck?_ "

 

He leans in and lowers his voice.

 

"I start to make out somethin' movin' in the dark. I'm squintin' and listenin' and there's this sort of weird smackin' sound…"

 

She bobs her head for him to continue.

 

"And then I can see it's these two blokes just goin' at it like rabbits."

 

He beats his fist into his palm in lewd imitation. Cooper's eyes widen in shock.

 

"One of 'em is trussed up in some sort of slingshot lookin' thing."

 

He makes an apex with his arms and mimics a swinging motion.

 

She gasps.

 

"Wearin' a ball gag. 'e's the one who sees me first. 'is eyes are big as saucers and 'e's thrashin' and screamin', tryin' to warn 'is mate."

 

Ford holds his wrists in the air like he's bound and pretends to struggle, eyes bulging in mock fright.

 

"The other bloke is this burly fucker in a leather mask, looks like one of the Village People cast as Batman - "

 

Cooper is snort-laughing now.

 

"And 'e 'as no idea I'm standin' behind 'im and 'e's tellin' the other bloke, _Yeah, go on - take it. I know you like that, bitch_ -" Ford growls in a husky voice, twitching his lips to keep from smiling.

 

"And the poor little bugger in the slingshot is strugglin' for all 'e's worth and lookin' like 'e's ‘bout to 'ave a stroke -"

 

Cooper slaps the table; her face is red as a tomato and she's laughing so hard she makes a choking sound.

 

"And I'm just standin' there like a horse's arse in my wetsuit, and s'like a fuckin' train wreck. I'm lookin' the poor bastard dead in the eyes and I can't look away - "

 

"Stop, stop…" She pants.

 

"And fuckin' finally 'is bloke's like, _What is the matter, Billy?_ and Billy's screamin' 'round the gag and tryin' to point at me and all…"

 

Ford frantically jerks his head in demonstration.

 

"… and this bloke turns 'round and sees me."

 

"Oh my gosh, oh my gosh," Cooper sobs, dragging in deep breaths, "Wha-what did you d-do?"

 

"I jumped back out the window, didn't I?"

 

Cooper leans back in her chair, breasts bouncing and jiggling, and tries to sip air between laughing fits.

 

"And _that_ is the most terrified I've ever been. Not a day goes by I don't close my eyes and see poor little Billy strugglin' in that slingshot."

She makes little cooing noises, fanning herself with one hand and holding her stomach with the other.

He cracks a smile, finally. He can’t help it; she looks so sexy - all flushed and breathless and spent. He wants her like this when she’s under him, when he’s cradling her head in his hand and pounding into her -

“What ‘bout you, darlin’?” he asks, shifting in his chair to adjust his hard-on and hiding his grin behind his wine glass.

“Me?” She dabs under her eyes with her napkin.

“Yah, you.” He folds his arms on the table, leaning in. God, he could watch her all night. “What’s the most terrifyin’ thing you’ve ever done?”

She hums, smoothing her fringe out her eyes, and takes a gulp of water before she answers. “That would probably have to be the flight from Milwaukee to Arlington.”

“What, you ‘fraid of flyin’?”

“No!” She flaps her hand. “No no, nothing like that. I love to fly -”

He pictures her tucked against his side in first class, and grins. “Go on, then.”

“It was just… I was leaving everything I knew - Waukesha, my family, my friends, teaching -”

“Oh yah, what’d you teach?”

She smiles, studying her water glass as her fingertips track trails through the condensation. “AP Chem and, my last year, Honors Physics.”

_Ayepeechem, s’that some kinda foreign fuckin’ language they speak in Burma or somethin’…_

She must see the confusion on his face, but she rushes to explain, “Advanced Placement Chemistry,” with an awkward laugh, adding, “It’s ok, no one really knows what it is.”

He has a feeling she’s lying about that last bit. “And Physics, you said?”

She twists the end of a curl around her finger, giving him a self-conscious glance from under her lashes. “Yeah.”

_What’s she got to be embarrassed about?_

He gives her a warm smile.

“Jesus, Miss Coopah. I knew you were a clever little minx; didn’t realize you were a genius.”

Startled by his compliment, she shakes her head with a wry smile. “Genius? Yeah right. I don’t even have degrees in Chemistry and Physics - “

“What, you just… make it up? What you’d get your degree in then, Under-water Basket Weavin’? Christ, s’no wonder I couldn’t learn my maths and sciences in school; bloke teachin’ it probably ‘ad a degree in African Story-tellin’, didn’t ‘e?”

“N-no!” Her shoulders are shaking with the effort to keep from laughing. “No - I had curriculum -”

“Oh, well!” He waves his hand in the air, biting the inside of his cheek to control his grin. “That makes me feel bloody better, doesn’t it? Maybe I’ll retire and teach Victorian ‘istory. Or maybe Spanish for Native Speakers. S’long as I’ve got the _curriculum_ …”

She’s wheezing again she’s laughing so hard. He smiles, giving himself another point, wondering if he can get to five in one night before she passes out from exhaustion.

“I - I have a degree in As-astronomy,” she insists weakly.

“Astronomy? Like, writin’ people’s ‘oroscopes and shit? Well, call me a monkey’s uncle.” He hikes up his shirt sleeve, sticks his palm under her nose where she’s propped herself up with her forehead in her hand. “Read my palm, sweet'eart, and tell me what subject I’ll be teachin’ the children.”

He can’t keep from chuckling when she tosses her napkin at him and lays her head on her forearms, laughing so hard she’s crying.

________________________________________

It’s nearly midnight. The sky is overcast, and the lights on Marbury Point are brighter in the water tonight than they were last night. 

“Gosh, this is so good,” she moans.

“Give us a bite, then.”

She scoops up a bit of tiramisu from the takeout container with her plastic fork and offers it to him.

He takes it from her, biting hold of the fork tines and tugging gently.

She smiles. “Pretty good, huh?”

He wants to freeze time. Just stop the world and stay like this with her forever.

_What does she want?_

“Why’d you study astronomy?” The question is out before he realizes he’s asked it.

“My Pappy bought me a telescope when I was nine. We used to lay on the roof of the garage and look through it together. He called it, _Watching the galaxy go by_. He taught me all about black holes and supernovas, our solar system, the constellations - everything.”

Her face is soft and sweet, a tender little smile on her lips.

 

“I looked through that telescope and saw Jupiter’s moons, and I thought, _I’m going to go there. I’m going to see what’s out there_.”

He lifts a curl off her shoulder, twists it around his finger.

“Little Susan Cooper, space explorer.”

She sighs, frowning, and spears a bit of dessert with her fork. “What a joke, right?”

Her tone makes the center of his chest ache a bit.

“S’not. I can picture it perfectly: sexy little tinfoil dress and a fishbowl over your ‘ead, charmin’ all the Martians. I think you’d make a great astronaut. ‘ell, you’re Fine’s ‘andler. Twat couldn’t find ‘is way out of a wet paper sack without you. You’d ‘ave no trouble navigatin’ deep space.”

She smothers a guilty chuckle with her hand and elbows him playfully in the ribs. “Stop...”

“Can’t stop, luv,” he murmurs. The look in her big pretty eyes warms him to the bone. “I couldn’t stop if I wanted.”

Her lips part a little, and he slides his hand through her hair to cup the back of her head. The seat leather groans as he leans forward. Her breath hitches when his lips are just a few inches from hers.

He catches her plump bottom lip between his.

He kisses her softly, tasting chocolate and coffee, running his fingers through her hair and over the sides of her face and down her neck.

She melts, sighing, into his touch.

 

Everything grays out and fades in that moment - something hot unfurls and expands in his chest, and it stings with bitter sweetness.

 

She pulls away slowly; their lips separate with a soft _smooch_.

 

"It’s getting pretty late.” Her voice is small and whispery.

“Don’t suppose that’s an invitation?” he rumbles, smiling ruefully.

She snorts softly and gives him an _I’m-not-even-going-to-dignify-that-question-with-an-answer_ look.

“Right, ‘ome it is, then.”

She pats his arm affectionately. “Way to be a good sport, Rick.”

“I’m nothin’ if not sportsmanly, Susan.”

 

It’s only a chuckle, but he gives himself a point anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-dah! Their first smoochy-smoochy. 
> 
> Definitely *not* their last.
> 
> Thank you for all your fantastic comments; they mean a lot. Seriously. Thank you :)


	8. Take Two And Call Me In The Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I watched the woman I love get tossed from a plane, and get hit by another plane - midair!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might be a *bit* sad...

That night, he has the dream about Sandra.

 

She's strapping on her chute, hair whipping in the wind that cuts through the open carrier door. The too-bright sunlight frames her, blurring her edges.

 

_Sandra._

 

"Hurry up, Ford." Her mouth is set in a determined line, but the corner of her eyes crinkle in a smile at the sight of him fumbling with his straps.

 

"Somethin's wrong with the chute," he shouts back. The carrier jerks; he lurches forward, feet heavy in his combats.

 

_Somethin's wrong._

 

"S'not _your_ chute, silly," she laughs. His stomach rolls.

 

_Don't jump._

 

"Sandra, wait!" He stumbles forward, but the plane pitches and his feet are slip-sliding on the floor grate.

 

One hand curled loosely around the jump bar, she waves back at him. "Can't wait. It's time."

 

She leaps.

 

He scrambles after her. The plane groans and tilts, tipping him out of the carrier door and he's falling.

 

_Somethin's wrong._

 

Three hundred feet below him, Sandra is calling to him. "Faster, Ford. Faster!" she sings.

 

Beyond her, lights twinkle across the desert, orange and red lights brighter than the sun. The wind rushes past his face.

 

"Sandra!"

 

Two hundred feet now. There's a tingling in his fingertips as he feels himself gaining speed.

 

He senses a dull pulsing to the time of the lights of the desert; their vibrations press in against his bones and behind his eyes.

 

_Somethin's wrong._

 

"Hurry, Ford!"

 

One hundred feet - she's just below him. The wind is rushing past his face so fast it pulls the corners of his mouth and burns his eyes.

 

Fifty feet.

 

_Reach._

 

He hears a horrible groan, like the sound of a building collapsing in on itself.

 

At the second he sees the A-10 barreling towards her, his head snaps back and his whole body is jerked up and up and up.

 

_No! No no no no…_

 

The Thunderbolt spirals past him, tail streaming black smoke. He sees her hit the wing and bounce off like a paper doll thrown at a ceiling fan, sees her chute open beneath her, sees her land in its center and its edges rise up and engulf her.

 

Then there is no sound.

 

His fingers scramble at the snaps of his chute.

 

_Get it off, got to get this fuckin' thing off!_

 

The desert is rumbling as it rises up to meet him, and he lands in soft sand and miles and miles of parachute.

 

_She's in here, somewhere._

 

"Sandra!"

 

He's knee-deep in sand, fists full of parachute - pulling and pulling and pulling.

 

"Sandra! Sandra!"

 

_Here - she's here!_

 

This is always the part when he realizes he's dreaming - the instant he's pulling back the last yard of chute is the instant he remembers how she looked. Limbs at every angle, skull bashed in, ribcage crushed and red.

 

But this time, when he pulls back that last yard, it's Cooper's broken body - it's Cooper's smashed face - that's waiting for him under the chute.

 

He wakes up heaving.

 

Kicking out of the twisted heap of sheets and covers, he scrambles into the bathroom. He won't make it to the toilet - he stumbles to his knees and vomits a hundred dollars' worth of filet mignon and cabernet sauvignon into the tub.

 

He wretches for a good ten minutes.

 

Afterward, he lies panting on the cold floor tiles and presses the heels of his shaking hands against his eyes. He sees Cooper, sitting across from him tonight at the dinner table.

 

_She takes a sip of wine, looking at him thoughtfully over the rim of her glass. "What's the most terrifying thing you've ever done?"_

 

He thinks he's going to be sick again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's for Husband, who was like, "Can we get a little backstory? Or is this just about Ford and Cooper having sex?"


	9. I'm Dreaming Of A White Christmas

She's all he fucking thinks about.

 

He replays their dates in his mind over and over again; her tinkling laugh rolls around in his head as he falls asleep at night. He's a slave to his mobile, checking every half hour for new texts (and rereading old ones when there aren't any new ones). Wanking off every chance he gets, picturing her underneath him, naked and wet and _begging_ him…

 

He crosses and uncrosses his arms on the table, glancing out at the street for _God-only-knows-how-many-times_ in the last ten minutes.

 

It's two days before Christmas, and this early in the morning, the streets are deserted except for the occasional passersby. The sky is overcast and dark; the weatherman reported a chance of snow flurries by late morning.

 

He hopes so, he thinks as he taps out the chorus of _Satisfaction_ on the tabletop and checks his watch. It’s been three days and he needs to see her again. To touch her again. To kiss her again. And if her flight's cancelled…

 

An image of her - laid out by the fire on his living room rug, moaning his name as he goes balls-deep into her - flashes in his mind.

 

_Now that'd be a merry fuckin' Christmas, wouldn't it?_

 

The wreath on the diner door jingles merrily, and there she is - _God al-fuckin'-mighty_ \- wearing a pretty little red sweater and dark denim jeans tucked into her shag-me booties.

 

She spots him in the booth by the window and smiles. It makes his heart speed up and his blood pump faster, like he’s been running for miles. He feels a bit lightheaded as he stands to greet her.

 

_Need to ease off the coffee, mate._

 

She’s painted her lips to match her sweater and done this foxy thing with her eyeliner that reminds him of a sixties Brigitte Bardot. She smoothes her fringe across her forehead and offers him a shy, “Good morning.”

 

“Is now that I’ve seen you.” He pulls her to him by the hips, dipping his head. She’s so much shorter than he is, he realizes with a smirk. She steadies herself with her hands on his biceps; he flexes for her as he presses his lips to hers.

 

She giggles against his mouth, squeezing his arms. He gives her hips an answering squeeze. She smells so good, and as their lips pull apart they makes a sensual little smooching sound that has his cock half-hard already.

 

“You look so good I could eat you up,” he rumbles, pulling a bit of her ponytail over her shoulder and twisting the end of it around his finger.

 

God, he missed her.

 

"Thank you." She runs her hands up and down the length of his arms. "You don't look so bad yourself, Mister. Gray's a good color on you." She squeezes his biceps again.

 

 _Like's the gun show, aye? Wait till she sees the 'eavy artillery._  

 

"All packed and ready?" he asks as he gestures for her to sit.

 

A flash of concern crosses her face as she eyes the booth.

 

"Uh - actually… Could we maybe - get a table..?" She combs the end of her ponytail with her fingers, looking embarrassed.

 

"Sure. Everthin' ok?" Why won't she look at him?

 

"Yah! Yah… it's just - easier." She makes a vague motion with her hand. "More room…"

 

He looks between her and the booth seat, perplexed. And then -

 

_Ah. Oh, darlin'…_

 

He tips her chin up and presses his lips to hers again. When he pulls away, she gives him a grateful little smile.

 

"Go on then and pick one out. I'll grab my coffee."

 

They sit next to each other instead of across. She traces the knit pattern of his pullover, tips of her fingers moving up and down his forearm like little trolleys on a cable line.

 

"This is a very nice sweater - so soft."

 

"You want it?" He moves to pull it over his head.

 

"Stop," she giggles, smacking his abs with the back of her hand.

 

He grins.

 

"Oh - you moved tables!" Their waitress, a freckled redhead with enormous hoop earrings, offers them a cheerful smile as she sets a water glass and a straw in front of Cooper. She hands them single-sided menus printed on heavy cream stationary. "My name is Rachel, and I'll be your server today. Would you like something besides water to drink, ma'am?"

 

"Yes please - coffee, and orange juice?" Cooper gives her a bright smile over her menu.

 

"Yes ma'am! Just so you both know, our specials this morning are a stuffed French toast with gingerbread cream filling. That comes with an egg your-way and a choice of sausage or bacon. The other special is a spinach and mushroom omelette with goat cheese and green and black olives, served with your choice of an English muffin, wheat or sourdough toast. I'll give you two a chance to look at the menu and I'll be back in a few minutes with your coffee and juice!"

 

"Thank you, Rachel!" Cooper chirps.

 

His mouth twitches to hide his grin.

 

"Your friendly today, darlin'."

 

"Well, I'm always friendly," she supplies, perusing the menu. "I'm just a friendly sort of gal."

 

"Wish you'd be a bit _friendlier_ to me," he purrs with a sly smile, picking her hand up off the table and holding it between his.

 

She snorts, setting down her menu, and turns to him with an amused look. "I think I have been _pretty_ friendly with you, Rick." She gives her hand in his a meaningful glance.

 

"S'not very friendly to up and leave me for a week, is it? Not very friendly a'tall." He presses a kiss to her wrist, giving her a wounded look.

 

"Believe me," she sighs, "if I had a good enough reason not to go home this Christmas, I wouldn't." She shifts in her seat, glancing out the window.

 

_Not the only one 'oping for snow, then?_

 

"Everythin' alright, luv?"

 

"Yes! Yes, absolutely." She gives him a bright smile. "Heard it might snow this morning." She takes a sip of her water, peeking out the window again from under her lashes. Her lips leave a little red mark on the rim of the glass.

 

He can't take his eyes off her mouth as he says, "Wouldn't mind a white Christmas. You?"

 

She picks at the edge of her menu with her free hand. He squeezes the other gently.

 

_What's wrong, darlin'?_

 

"Do you have any brothers and sisters?" she asks suddenly.

 

_Christ - 'ere she goes again with the questions._

 

He sits back, examining her hand between his. "Well, I -" He looks up in time to see Rachel headed their way.

 

"What you want, darlin'?" He nods at the menu.

 

"The French toast special. Scrambled eggs. Sausage. Please."

 

"Are you two ready to order?" Rachel asks, setting down Cooper's juice and coffee. She readies her order pad and pen.

 

"Yah, luv - she'll 'ave the stuffed French toast with scrambled eggs and sausage -"

 

"The gingerbread cream-stuffed special?"

 

"Right. And I'll 'ave the spinach omelette - egg whites only - with wheat toast, and do you 'ave turkey sausage?"

 

Rachel sucks her teeth and grimaces. "Ooh - no sir, unfortunately we do not. So sorry."

 

"S'alright, I'll skip it."

 

Rachel seems genuinely relieved. "Ok! I'll go put these in for you and they should be out shortly!"

 

"So, you were saying?" Cooper prompts as Rachel leaves with their menus and their orders.

 

He rubs his chin with his hand. "Was I?"

 

She stirs a  bit of sugar into her coffee and gives him a patient smile.

 

"Me mum married a bloke with three girls when I was a lad."

 

"You have three step-sisters?"

 

"Yah, three. All younger." He takes a gulp of coffee, hoping she'll catch that he doesn't particularly want to elaborate.

 

She doesn't.

 

"So, what are their names? Do they all live in England? What are they like?"

 

"Names are Veronica, Natalie, and Mariah. Roni's the oldest; she's married, got a couple a'kids, lives in Sussex. 'er 'usband's some sort of broker or somethin'. 'e's a real 'orse's arse. But then Roni's no sweet'eart either."

 

He can picture her: beautiful, cold, conniving. A cruel smile twisting her pretty round face as she makes one of her passive-aggressive remarks.

 

"Natalie's the middle one - she's just like Roni. Only nastier. Married to a counselor -" Seeing the curious look on her face, he amends, "A lawyer. She works in fashion magazines - editor or writer, I think. Livin' in Hertfordshire. Dunno when's the last time I saw 'er."

 

Natalie, with her short hair and sharp eyes and haughty laugh.

 

"And Mariah?"

 

 _Mariah._ Her face, young and smiling, crackles in his mind.

 

He scrubs a hand over his head, ignores the ache in his chest.

 

"Mariah was my favorite. We're twelve years apart; she fancied I was 'er personal pet and plaything." He gives Cooper a rueful look. "And I was."

 

Cooper smiles, crinkling her nose. "Was she a sweet little girl?"

 

He snorts. "Riah? She was the bossiest little chit you ever met. Demandin', spoiled, 'igh-strung…" He grins, more to himself than at Cooper. "Yah, she was sweet. She'd scold you one minute for misspeaking your lines at 'er tea party, and then pat your cheek and 'and you a 'alf-eaten sweet the next."

 

Cooper laughs. "Where is she now?"

 

He rubs his chin again, face creasing in a frown. "She -"

 

As if on cue, Rachel arrives with their food.

 

_Thank the bloody stars._

 

"What about you?" he asks as they tuck in, silently praying she takes the bait. "Got any brothers or sisters?"

 

She nods, tipping a generous amount of syrup onto her French toast.

 

Something in her tone and in the edges of her smile seems off as she says, "A stepbrother, Brian. He's older than I am, by about four years. His wife's name is Linda. They have three kids: my oldest nephew, Kevin, is eight; my niece, Kayla, is six. Last year, they had a surprise: Keenan. He'll be a year-and-a-half in January."

 

She digs her phone out of her purse. "Here they are."

 

There's a pot-bellied twat with thick brown hair in a white dress shirt and red tie, standing next to a starved-looking blonde in a white and red checked dress holding a frowning baby. The other two children are in outfits that match their parents; the girl's sandy blond hair is in pigtails, the boy's in a bowl cut. 

 

He's not sure what to say, so he says the first thing that comes to his mind. " 'e looks like a poofter."

 

She smothers a chuckle. "He'd die if he heard you say that. He's very conservative."

 

"Looks like the type," he snorts as he hands the phone back.

 

_What's she want to talk about all this for, anyway?_

 

He runs his hand over her thigh under the table. "Don't think you're the conservative type, though, Susan. You strike me as a bit of a free spirit."

 

She gives his hand a sharp _slap_.

 

"Steady on," he chuckles.

 

"I'm just… dreading the whole thing, you know?" She puts her fork down with a _clang_ , rubs the spot between her eyebrows.

 

He tenses; something is definitely wrong and he has no fucking clue what it is.

 

"What you mean, luv?"

 

She flaps her hand. "Just… holiday jitters…"

 

_Who's makin' 'er jittery? Fuckin' kill 'em, that's what._

 

He looks around the diner suspiciously.

 

"Someone been botherin' you?" he asks, sitting up straighter.

 

"It's just, my mom will start in with the whole," Susan makes a puppet with her hand, " _You're not getting any younger, Susan_ and the _Did you try any of the recipes from the Low-cal Gal cookbook I sent you, Susan?_ And Linda will be tittering in the background and insisting I see her hairdresser while I'm there because," She makes a second puppet, " _Fernando could give you such a flattering cut, Susan. You have to be careful about bangs with your round face, you know._ And Brian will go on and on and on about his stupid boat and his stupid promotions and…"

 

_What in the fuckin' 'ell…_

 

"Susan, Susan - breathe, darlin'."

 

"Sorry!" She covers her eyes with her hands, takes a deep breath. "Sorry. It's just my family - this time of year - you must think I'm crazy."

 

He pictures Veronica and Natalie standing together, arms linked at the elbow and looking down their noses at his mother. At him.

 

"No, not a'tall, luv." He takes her hand, presses a kiss to her palm.

 

She looks at him miserably, big green eyes shining up at him all moist around the edges and -

 

_Oh God, no. No no no…_

 

He wracks his brain… tries to remember his bomb defusing training...

 

_First rule of explosives: always assume the bomb is armed._

 

He surreptitiously edges her butter knife out of her reach. "Listen, Susan -"

 

_Step one: vacate the premises of all bystanders._

 

Glancing around, he spies Rachel making her way to their table. Thinking quickly, he backhands Cooper's coffee cup off the table.

 

"Rick!" Susan bends to pick it up, mouth open in surprise.

 

He waves Rachel off with a _get-the-fuck-out-while-you-still-can_ glare while Cooper attempts to mop up the spill with her napkin.

 

Rachel's eyes bug out of her head; she does an about-face and scrambles back into the kitchen.

 

"So sorry 'bout that darlin'. Concussion grenade's affected my inner ear fluid; throws off my balance from time-to-time."

 

He ignores the incredulous look she gives him.

 

_Step two: Isolate the main fuse._

 

"Is it that you don't want a run-in with your mum? Or, is it that you don't want to see your brother and 'is wife - what's 'er name, Libby, Lacey…?"

 

"Linda," she mutters hopelessly, wiping her coffee cup with a corner of the tablecloth. "It's everything. For once I just want to actually _enjoy_ my holiday, you know?"

 

_Step three: cut the blue and that will do; cut the red and wind up dead._

 

"Don't go, then." The ticking is loud in his ears now.

 

She throws her hands up with a choked little noise that pinches his chest.

 

"I have to - it's _Christmas_ and they're my _family_ …"

 

_Five…_

 

"Sod 'em." He leans in, jabs his finger on the table next to her juice cup. "It's your 'oliday, you should spend it 'ow you like."

 

She slides the cup to the other side of her plate, out of his reach, mouth wobbling as she insists, "What would I do? Everyone's gone out of town; I'd spend Christmas by myself..."

 

_Four…_

 

"Spend it with me, luv." He lowers his voice, face softening. "I'll give you a Christmas you'll never forget."

 

"Rick - I can't - what about your plans?" Her voice is cracking.

 

_Three…_

 

" 'aven't got any. Lone wolf and all." He takes her hands in his, gives her his most charming smile. "Listen - I'll let you drive the A8. Anywhere you like. Drive it to Canada - drive it to China. You'd like that, wouldn't you sweet'eart?"

 

"Lone wha - you'll let me drive the Audi?" She sniffles.

 

_Two…_

 

"The Audi, the Beamer, the Maserati - whatever you like, darlin'. Stay 'ere with me and I'll rent you a fuckin' helicopter if you want."

 

"I - I - I can't drive a stick shift…"

 

_One…_

 

"I'll teach you. You'll learn it in no time, girl as bright as you are. Picture it: you behind the wheel of the GranTurismo, flyin' down the 'ighway on Christmas Day…"

 

_Steady, steady..._

 

She lets out a deep breath.

 

_Come on…_

 

"… ok," she nods, giving him a shy smile.

 

"Ok?"

 

"Ok, I'll stay. You know what, Rick? You're right - why shouldn't I spend my holiday how I want to -"

 

He doesn't even bother hiding his grin as he makes a _come-on-then_ motion to Rachel, who's been watching them from the window in the kitchen door. She rushes to their table, coffee refill at the ready.

 

"Yes, sir?"

 

"- grown woman, and I can do what I want -"

 

"We'll take the check, luv."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for taking so long to update! Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> And thank you for your comments. Which you will be leaving. Because you are that cool person who leaves comments. *waggles eyebrows*
> 
> Here's lookin' at you, Meggybakes ;-)


	10. Santa Baby, Slip A Sable Under The Tree Part I

He grins like the cat that ate the canary all the way down to his garage bay. Straightening his shift cuffs as the lift opens, and his smile nearly splits his face in two when he sees her standing in front of the Roadster, mouth hanging open in disbelief.

 

"S'a '58 MGA Roadster," he calls casually as he saunters up to her, hands in his pockets. "Rebuilt it myself. 'ad to go round the world for parts."

 

He looks down at her, mouth twitching to hide his smirk. She's wearing a sparkly sweater that hugs her body from breast to hips and sexy little black leggings. She's a bit taller than usual, he notices.

 

He clears his throat as he spots her glossy cherry-red wedges. Fingers flexing, he tamps down the rushing urge to bend her over the Roadster's hood.

 

She doesn't notice, turning in a slow circle and gesturing around the bay in wonder. "These are all yours?"

 

"S'right." He lifts his chin, hands on his hips.

 

"Ford - wha - how?" She shakes her head, giving him a sideways look, hedging, "Ford - it's none of my business, but how… there's a million dollars' worth of cars and bikes in here. At least."

 

_Clever girl._

 

He nods, striding up to the boot of her Saturn and, with a practiced slight of the hand under her bumper, pops the boot.

 

"Most of 'em I won," he admits as he bends to gather up the grocery sacks.

 

"Won them?"

 

He glances over his shoulder as he elbows the boot lid closed. 

 

"Yah, from when I raced."

 

Her head tilts, curls tumbling over her shoulder. "Raced?"

 

He adjusts the sacks in his arms, propping his hip against her boot. "I haven't told you about the time I raced Muqrin al Saud 'alf-way across Rub'al-Khali for 'is bugatti?"

 

Blinking, she slowly shakes her head.

 

"Oh, you are in for a _treat_ tonight."

 

She rolls her eyes, sidling up to him in those little fuck-me heels.

 

_God, what I would do for this woman._

 

"So, can I drive the Roadster?"

 

"You can drive any of 'em you like. Drive 'em all."

 

_You can drive my whole fuckin' world for all I care._

 

He chuckles at her delighted clam shell _clap!_

 

"You're the best!"

 

_Fuckin' right I am._

 

"Give us a kiss then."

 

She rises up onto her tip toes, an arm around his neck for balance, as he bends down. The paper bags crunch between them as they share a slow, soft kiss.

 

He smirks when she tucks her hand in at his elbow as they walk to the lift.

 

He hands her his access card.

 

"Top floor, luv."

 

___________________________________

 

"Ok, we need one-half cup diced celery."

 

"Darlin', I 'ave no idea 'ow much that is."

 

"Well, that'd be -" Her tongue peeks out between her teeth as she thinks. "Approximately 113 grams."

 

He raises his eyebrow at her.

 

She cups her hand, holds it under his nose. "This much."

 

He nods. "Right. You want that much of the carrot and onion too?"

 

She hums, tapping her cheek. "Do the same amount for carrot, but go ahead and chop the whole onion."

 

A pleasant warmth spreads through him as he dices. He listens to the scrape of the wooden spoon against his cast-iron where she's melting butter, picturing how beautiful she'll look behind the wheel of the Roadster, his hand on her thigh -

 

"Ford!"

 

"What - what 'appened?" He flips the knife around in his hand and tries to shake off the lazy haze. "What's wrong?"

 

She's staring in wonder at the chop board. "Where did you learn to do -" she nods at the rows of perfectly cubed vegetables, " _that_ so fast?"

 

He snorts. "This?" He tosses the chopping knife high up in the air over his shoulder with one hand, catches it by the handle behind his back with the other. "I'm a fuckin' spy, aren't I?"

 

Her wide-eyed expression makes his chest puff out.

 

"What, ol' Beverly Whine can't do that?"

 

She blinks, sputtering, "Wha - well, of course - he just doesn't like to show off -"

 

He smirks. "If you say so, luv." He points to the stove with the knife tip. "Your butter's smokin'."

 

"Oh popsicle sticks!" She fans the pan with a potholder, turning the heat down. "Quick, the onions!"

 

"Stand back, now. Don't want it poppin' you."

 

She scuttles behind him and peers around his bulk as he tips in the vegetables, balancing herself with a hand between his shoulder blades.

 

He scraps the chop board clean over the pan with the knife.

 

"Gimme that," he nods at the potholder on the counter.

 

She hands it to him wordlessly.

 

He gives the pan a vigorous shake. The butter hisses and pops as the vegetables separate and disperse evenly.

 

"Thank you," she murmurs, clutching her cooking spoon to her chest and looking up at him with those big green eyes.

 

She looks so pretty standing here in his kitchen, cooking for him in her sparkly sweater and little red heels.

 

"What you call this stuff?" he asks, nodding at the bowl of bread cubes and eggs and the cans of stock.

 

"Dressing!" she chirps, pushing the vegetables around in the pan. She sets the spoon down on the spoon rest, satisfied. Smoothing her fringe out of her eyes, she smiles as she elaborates, "For stuffing the bird."

 

His grin takes on a predatory edge.

 

"That an invitation, then?"

 

She blinks, eyes on his mouth.

 

"Rick…"

 

He dips his head, catches her bottom lip in a kiss. He sucks it a bit, tugging gently. When she makes a little whimpering sound in the back of her throat, he pulls her flush to him by the hips, fanning his fingers over the swell of her ass.

 

She gasps, and his tongue is in her mouth, hand lifting and fingers combing through her hair to hold her head right where she is. She moans - _God these fuckin' noises she's makin' for me_ \- and he presses his body into her, tongue rolling over hers and cupping a handful of her ass cheek as his hips mimic the motion  -

 

She jerks as his cock grinds against her soft stomach, giving his chest a shove and wriggling out of his grasp as the force of it makes him stumble back a half-step.

 

"Rick!" she admonishes breathlessly, eyes as big as tea saucers and darting from his groin to his face and back again as she scrambles around the kitchen island. Her cheeks are bright red and her breathing is shallow, stuttering.

 

_This should be good._

 

"Goin' somewhere, sweet'eart? Mind if I come with you?" he rumbles, prowling around the island to retrieve her with a cocky grin.

 

She edges away nervously, the look on her face somewhere between amusement and terror. "You just - stay right there!"

 

He feints left; she shrieks, skittering around the island. She doesn't have time to react as he darts right, catching her around the waist and hauling her to him, mashing her breasts against his chest.

 

She snatches the nearest thing she can find - a dishtowel - and beats him with it. "Out, out, out!"

 

He laughs, arm raised to shield his face as he backs out of the kitchen. He waits until he's at the threshold, then snatches the end of the dishrag midair and wraps it around his hand, using her momentum to tug her to him.

 

He grins triumphantly at her squeak of surprise as she stumbles into him.

 

"Rick! You - you - you are such a hound dog!"

 

Growling, he cups her face, tilting it up for another kiss. He can feel her laughing against him - can feel her smiling against his mouth as he catches her lip between his. He strokes her cheek with his thumb and is rewarded with a soft mewling sound.

 

He gives her a gravelly _woof-woof_ when they pull apart.

 

"Back!" She whips the dishtowel like a bullwhip, pointing to the living room. "Get back!"

 

"I thought I was sous chef-in'!" he cries with mock-indignation.

 

She huffs, smoothing her fringe and trying to hide her smile.

 

"Well, you're fired."

 

___________________________________________________________________

 

Dinner is a slow, lazy affair. He pulls up a stool to the breakfast bar and watches her cook. She makes a proper mess as she putters about - the sink is piled with dishes by the end of it and his counters are covered in a bit of every ingredient she used (and maybe some she didn't). The smell is incredible, and she laughs and jokes and chats with him, easy as anything, while she cooks.

 

They talk about work - her work mainly, because he's too relaxed to give a fuck about his and frankly doesn't want to spoil her appetite. She tells him she's working on an algorithm for Fine's field cam, to help parse data faster as it records. He's not sure what exactly an "alga-rhythm" is, or what it has to do with Fine's camera, but he's seen the little twat dance and he's sure Fine needs all the help with rhythm he can get. When he tells her so, she laughs so hard she doubles-over and has to hold onto the counter for support.

 

He doesn't think he's ever heard that sound in this flat before - the sound of someone laughing. On the tele, maybe, but that's really not the same, is it? He tells her that, too, and the way she looks at him - sweet smile and big green eyes shining in the overhead lighting - makes his chest pinch a bit. And when she leans over the sink on her tip toes and kisses his cheek and tells him quietly to set the table, he feels like he's stepped into another man's life. A better man's life. He keeps that thought to himself.

 

They sit next to each other at the table instead of across, plates piled high with the most delicious meal he's ever had. Their conversation is punctuated by her snort-laughs and his barking ones. While they eat, she tells him stories about her step-brother, about how he and his friends teased her when they were children, and about how he went bald at thirty and got those ridiculous hair plugs. (She assures him that she likes a man who embraces his hair-loss; men who bald early typically have higher levels of testosterone. He emphatically agrees).

 

She tells him about Grammy and Pappy as she serves dessert - deep dish pumpkin pie and homemade whip cream. He declines a piece, opting to let her feed him bites of hers while he holds her hand and indulges in fantasies of smearing whip cream all over her tits. She tells him about her favorite childhood Christmases at her grandparent's, about how much she misses Pappy at Christmas-time, and how she thinks Grammy does too, if her Schnapps benders and general lack of Christmas spirit are any indication.

 

They sip their coffees on the sofa, Cooper curled into his side - having declined to actually sit _in_ his lap - and watch the gas flame in the fireplace flicker rhythmically along the fake logs.

 

He wonders lazily, as her fingernails make figure-eights under the collar of his shirt, if he can remember a happy Christmas.

 

Mariah, sitting in his lap and fiddling with his shirt buttons while he laces her new ice skates. 

 

Him as a young lad, tucked into his mother's side and excitedly dumping out his stocking, counting his oranges and chocolate coins.

 

Sandra sneaking into his bunk with the bit of eggnog she'd nicked from the mess hall. Lying on his cot, naked in his arms, humming _Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas_ as her fingers trace the tattoo on his arm.

 

"- Rick?"

 

"Sorry, darlin'. I was miles away." He kisses the top of her hair. She smells so good.

 

"What's your favorite Christmas memory?" she repeats.

 

_That's easy enough._

 

"This one. With you."

 

"No, come on!" She swats his shoulder playfully. "Tell me - not a cheesy line; a real memory."

 

"S'not a line," he says quietly.

 

He sets his coffee down, pats her thigh lightly.

 

"I 'ave somethin' for you. Was gonna wait until tomorrow to give it to you, but I want to give it to you now."

 

Her breath hitches when he pulls the little turquoise and silver box out of his pants pocket.

 

"Oh my gosh, Rick - "

 

He's grinning like a fool already and she hasn't even opened it.

 

"Well, go on then."

 

Her fingers tremble a little as she unties the ribbon.

 

"It's a necklace - oh good gravy, Rick," she whispers, holding it up in the light. The diamond star pendant winks in the glow of the gas fireplace. "This is.."

 

_Perfect._

 

"This is perfect."

 

"They didn't 'ave any rocket ships or Jupiter moons - "

 

"No. This is _perfect_. I love it." She holds it out to him with one hand, gathers up her hair with the other.

 

"Will you help me with the clasp?"

 

His chest swells.

 

"You wanna wear it now?"

 

"Yes! Are you kidding - it's so beautiful." The leather groans as she shifts, offering him her neck.

 

His thick fingers fumble a bit with the lobster clasp, but eventually he manages it. He presses a kiss at the base of her neck, runs his hands down her arms and back up again.

 

She fingers the star as she turns around. The pendant drops low from the chain, hanging just above the crease between her breasts.

 

He plucks a bit of curl up off her shoulder, twisting it in his fingers.

 

"Beautiful."

 

She nods. "I love it."

 

"I meant you, Susan," he rumbles, running his thumb over her lips. "You are so fuckin' beautiful. God, sometimes when I look at you… "

 

Her eyes are wide and shining at him in the glow of the fire.

 

"Rick…"

 

He kisses her deeply, threading his fingers through her long, soft hair. Her hands slide up his chest and over his shoulders and he feels her melt into him.

 

Their lips separate with a soft wet sound as he dips his head to kiss her neck. She mewls softly, head lolling back into his hands as he trails open-mouthed kisses over her collarbone and sucks at the spot where her neck and shoulder meet.

 

"What you want, darlin'?" he breathes into her ear, taking the lobe between his lips and tugging gently.

 

"Oh gosh… Rick -"

 

She's stroking her hands over his abs, fingers grazing the waistband of his pants.

 

"Tell me what you want, sweet'eart." The edges of his words are tinged with need as he growls, "You want me to make love to you, Susan? Is that what you want?"

 

He kisses her jaw, her throat.

 

"Rick-uh… Rick… nuh…"

 

She's fingering the buckle of his belt now, eyelids fluttering closed and mouth open, panting.

 

He can hear the cables of his restraint creaking under the strain.

 

"Susan, luv, tell me what you want - "

 

She mewls, biting her plump bottom lip.

 

"I'll do anythin' you want. I'll fuck you any way you want - "

 

"Rick… oh God-uh…"

 

He grinds his groin into her; she goes completely slack in his arms, moaning and running her hands over his head and his shoulders and his back.

 

"Look at me, Susan."

 

Her eyes open to slits, she licks her lips.

 

Cradling her head in one hand, he runs the other down her breast, belly, and hip. Sliding it between him, he pushes between her thighs and cups her sex through her leggings.

 

"Oh GOD!"

 

"Ah-ah, look at me," he tips her head up, grinding the heel of his palm against her.

 

"Rick…" His name is a shaky whimper.

 

"Come on, darlin'. Can make you feel so good. Tell me."

 

"… Please"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a two-parter. 
> 
> I wonder what the second part will be about? Hmm...
> 
> ;-)


	11. Santa baby, Slip A Sable Under The Tree, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Queens - may I call you my Queens? - are you ready to be...
> 
> worshiped...
> 
> exalted...
> 
> ... because here with me tonight (or whenever you happen to be reading this) is a man who knows how to *please*.
> 
> Y'all better be on some birth control, because there is about to be some *grown* *woman* *shit* up in here.
> 
> Give it up, Queens, for Rick Ford.

Adrenaline punches through him as he rises up off of her; the absurd urge to roar surging up through him like a tsunami.

 

She bucks against his palm, eyes squeezed shut and lip between her teeth. Her fingers scramble against his shirt buttons, trembling too hard to undo them.

 

"You want this off?" he asks, covering her hands with his.

 

She nods, peeking at him from under her fringe and chewing her lip.

 

Curling his fingers around hers and between the buttons, he yanks. They snap and pop in every direction, _pinging_ against the sofa leather and the coffee table top.

 

She traces the lines of his pecs and abs, fingertips dipping into his belly button and the hollows of his hips above his waistband.

 

"Oh, wow - Rick. You are… unreal."

 

The way she's looking at him - he'd burn the whole world down to the ground if she asked him to.

 

"Lie back."

 

Eyes shining with trust and something else that makes him ache, she drapes an arm about his neck and lays her head back on the seat cushions.

 

Reaching around her hip, he tugs her leg up and over his. Braced above her, one hand slipping on the couch leather and the other digging into the armrest by her head, he grinds.

 

She moans, head tipping back, eyes clenched shut, mouth open.

 

"Like that, sweet'eart? Look at me, Susan."

 

She nods, fingertips pressing at the base of his skull and nails skimming over his body as he moves against her.

 

He's wanted her for so long and here she is, soft and willing and _so fucking beautiful_.

 

He's off the couch and on his knees, lifting one of her legs over his shoulder, before she realizes what's happened.

 

"Rick?"

 

"Wanted to do this for so long… no fuckin' idea how much I fuckin' want you, do you… fuckin' _show_ you…"

 

He digs his hands between her ass and the cushion, grabbing handfuls of her and dragging her to him until she's at the edge of the sofa, legs on either side of him. He hefts her thighs onto his shoulders, breathing in the smell of her sex through her leggings and knickers.

 

"Things I'm gonna do to you, darlin'…"

 

He buries his head in her crotch.

 

"Oh God, Rick!"

 

He's surrounded by her - warm dark softness all around him - mouthing her sex and her thighs through the fabric as he rubs his head around and around.

 

She huffing and whimpering above him; when he glances up at her, she's rubbing her tits through her sweater, head lolling from side-to-side.

 

"You like that, darlin'?" he rumbles. His heart feels like it's going to beat out of his chest. "You want me to eat your little cunt?"

 

She answers with a high-pitched noise that he takes for a _Yes_.

 

With no small amount of effort - _fuckin' thing's made outta fuckin' rubberbands_ \- he wrestles her leggings off. He's managed to keep her sexy little heels on her feet; her lacey black knickers slide over them with an elastic _snap_.

 

He slides firm hands up over the creamy pale skin of her calves and insides of her thighs, pushing her legs wide apart.

 

At the sight of her pretty pink cunt, glistening wet and parted for him, he groans.

 

"Oh God," she moans, hands tugging at her hair.

 

"Fuck," he grunts, tracing a finger up and down the lips. 

 

"Rick!"

 

He circles his fingertip around her entrance, breathing harshly. God, all the times he's pictured this - dreamed this -

 

"Rick…. Please, hurry up…"

 

When his tongue runs the length of her slit, catching the slick there, she shrieks his name.

 

He drags her by the ass until she's half-hanging off the sofa, thighs tightening around his neck. She bucks under him as he sucks her clit between his lips, flicks the tip of his tongue in that sweet little dip.

 

"Oh God oh God oh God oh God -"

 

His head is slippery with sweat, and her hands slip-slide as they look for something to anchor to. He teases her entrance with his index finger before sliding home. Her cunt pulls him in like quicksand, and his breath catches at how fucking tight she is.

 

_Been a while, 'as it?_

 

He finger-fucks her slowly, letting her get used to the push and pull of him inside her, laving her clit the whole time like it's his lifeline. When he thinks she's ready, he works in a second finger, hooking it and the first to find that bundle of nerves in the roof of her channel.

 

"Oh God - Rick Rick Rick -"

 

_Found it, mate._

 

He massages it with firm, shallow strokes - juices trickling between his fingers and down his knuckles and all over his chin and in his mouth. She's getting louder, voice getting higher, and he can feel her straining against him, thighs shaking and nails scratching the top of his head.

 

 _Come on, darlin'. Come for me, sweet'eart_.

 

She orgasms screaming, walls of her cunt shuddering around his fingers and a rush of slick coating his hand to the wrist.

 

He leans back a bit, watching her face above the swell of her belly and breasts. She's flushed, lashes fluttering prettily and hands squeezing her tits as she rides the high.

 

His fingers pump inside of her; he strokes languidly while he laps at her mound, long lazy swipes of his tongue over her soft pubic hair, in the crease and on tender skin of the inside of her thigh. His thumb draws slow circles around her clit, feeling for her tremors.

 

She rubs the top of his head, making sweet little cooing noises and sucking her tongue.

 

"Rick…"

 

He shakes his head, flicking his tongue over her clit.

 

_Oh, we are far from done 'ere, darlin'._

 

He takes his time bringing her back to the edge, dragging his tongue in a zigzag up and down her slit and twisting his fingers as he fucks her, trying to memorize her sweet spots.

 

She babbles incoherently above him as he flicks the little dip in her clit, managing a "lower, lower" and a "gentle, baby" and a "God, Rick - yes, there!" every now and then.

 

He wants to give her everything she asks for. Wants to ruin her for every man but him.

 

She's screaming nonsense as he tips her over the edge for the second time, nails digging into the leather and heels digging into his back.

 

He sits back on his haunches, feeling light-headed and gulping for air, and looks around for something to wipe off with. Finding his shirt balled up on the floor, he mops the slick off of his chin, neck, and chest, off his hand and wrist and forearm. There's a puddle on the sofa where her juices have dribbled between her ass cheeks and pooled beneath her.

 

He pushes down the urge to smear it over her thighs and tits, and unbuckles his belt instead.

 

From the way her legs are shaking and her head's lolling on her neck, he guesses she's not going to make it to the bedroom. He's not sure that he can carry her at the best of times - _ample as she is, and all_ \- and he's certainly in no shape to try now.

 

"Wai - Rick, where are you going?" she whines when he stands, eyes hooded and unfocused.

 

"Nowhere, sweet'eart." He curls his fingers under the lip of the coffee table and hefts it up and over with a grunt. It lands in a loud _smash_. He eyes the bare rug with smug satisfaction. "Not goin' anywhere."

 

She's under him in the blink of an eye, arms stretched up over her head as he tugs her top off.

 

He grunts appreciatively as he runs his hands over her lacey black bra.

 

"Came prepared, did you?" he teases, slanting his mouth over hers.

 

She can taste herself on him, he realizes, and the thought drives him mad. He runs his tongue along hers, cupping her tits through her bra and squeezing, pushing them up and together. He breaks their kiss to bury his face in the crease between her breasts, tonguing and mouthing her milky skin.

 

"Like that," she whimpers.

 

He grips the edge of her bra cup and tugs; her tit bounces loose and he catches her nipple in his mouth, sucking and teasing with his teeth until it puckers.

 

"I want - "

 

"Yes, darlin'?" he husks, sucking at the rise of her other breast.

 

"Please," she mewls, "inside… I want… I want…"

 

_Say it… say it…_

 

"Oh God…"

 

"God can't help you now, sweet'eart," he chuckles darkly, grinding his crotch into her.

 

"Rick, I want you… I want… Please, give it to me -"

 

He hauls himself up on his knees between her legs, balls aching and cock so hard it hurts. She runs her hands over herself, squeezes her breasts, fingers her slit.

 

"Rick… Rick," she pants mindlessly.

 

"That's right, darlin'. You just keep sayin' my name like that."

 

He rushes to undo his trousers, balances on one hand as he pushes them down with the other, pedaling his feet until - _fuckin' finally_ \- he's kicked them off.

 

"Rick?" she whines, reaching between her legs for him.

 

"You'll get it in a minute, luv."

 

He braces himself over her and nudges the inside of her thigh with his knee.

 

"Spread your legs, sweet'eart. That's it."

 

He reaches between them and grabs his cock; rubs the head up and down the length of her slit.

 

"Whoa, what the -"

 

"Shh, shh - relax." He works his hand under her head, cradling it gently in his large hand. "Relax for me. Gonna be a bit of a stretch -"

 

He pushes the head of his cock past the tight ring of muscles at her entrance. She winces, hand covering her eyes.

 

"Ah-ah, look at me." He threads her arms around his neck, hikes her legs further up his thighs to widen her opening. He pushes forward, sinking in inch-by-inch. Her face is pinched in pain, her breathing shallow and ragged. "I know, darlin'. Just 'old onto me."

 

"Hurts," she pants, balling her fists as he goes a little deeper.

 

"You want me to stop?" _Oh God, please say no. Please say no…_

 

His arms shake where he's braced himself above her.

 

"No!"

 

"Good," he grunts. "Couldn't if I wanted."

 

She gives him a breathy laugh.

 

He rolls his pelvis against hers when he bottoms out, rubbing her clit and stretching her out a bit. She grits her teeth as her cunt grips him in response.

 

"Try to relax, Susan," he whispers. He feels like he's been pulled as taunt as he can go, wiping the sweat off his forehead and waiting for her to adjust.

 

Eventually, he feels her hands unclench on his back, and she pulses around his cock, flexing her muscles experimentally.

 

He butts her cheek with his nose. "Yah?"

 

She nods.

 

He draws his hips back slowly, groaning low at the sweet, sweet drag. "Fuck, you feel _so good_ , Susan."

 

He picks a slow, easy tempo - she gasps and sighs beneath him, breasts and belly jiggling in time with his thrusts. He buries his face in her neck, rasping into her ear, "You like that?" and "God, you have a tight little cunt" and "That's my girl; open wider, take it all".

 

Sweat is dripping off him now, her hands slide over his slick skin as he moans. He can tell from the way his balls are drawing up and his gut is tensing that he's not going to last long.

 

_Shit._

 

He angles his thrusts even as his horizon is titling up and over him.

 

"Susan -" he chokes, hands fisting in the carpet and in her hair.

 

"It's ok, baby. I'm right here," she soothes, stroking her hands over his head and shoulders, up and down his arms, along his sides. "Come on, Rick. Come for me, baby."

 

His hips jerk in a few sharp thrusts and he hears shouting - he thinks it might be him who's shouting. He's not sure, his grip on reality is loosening and he's sliding, sliding…

 

_____________________________________________________

 

It's still dark when he wakes up. The lights from the city glow brightly against the dark blue sky in his picture window.

 

_Susan._

 

He reaches for her, but there's nothing - just a damp spot from… well. He grins to himself as he climbs to his feet.

 

_Where'd she go?_

 

He picks the Tiffany's box up off the floor, fingers the little bit of silver ribbon she tucked in it.

 

Remembering how she looked in that necklace tonight makes his chest sting with bitter sweetness.

 

_Where is she?_

 

Padding into the bedroom, he hears her before he sees her. As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he finds her bundled under the covers, snoring softly.

 

He climbs into bed with her, working a corner of the duvet out from her grasp with a smirk.

 

_Selfish little chit, isn't she?_

 

He'll just lie here and listen to her breath, he thinks. Once he's up, he's up, and all that. Always been an early riser. Sleep's never come easy to him, not with all he's seen…

 

He's asleep before his head hits the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am *exhausted* after writing this. 
> 
> **Ford wanted me to let everyone know that he has *never* had trouble getting a woman to orgasm from penetrative sex, and that the author is a wimpy twat (hey! dial it way back, Ford) and that there will be LOTS of future smut to correct this gross misrepresentation. *dramatic pissbaby flounce out of the room*
> 
> Also, this chapter is dedicated to the love of my virtual life, wanderingsmith. Because 1) she is amazing and 2) half-way through this chapter, i was just trying to see how many times i could make smith -choke-
> 
> 10,000 popped-collar points to anyone who comments her/his favorite bit from the chap. Come on, friends that smut together stay together!


	12. Simply Having A Wonderful Christmas Time Part I

He wakes with a start, reaching for the gun in his holster.

 

He recognizes his bedroom, hazy in the gray light of the winter morning filtering through his blinds.

 

_S'alright, mate._

 

Shifting onto his hip, he spies the curls peeking out from under the duvet, listens for her soft breathy snores, feels the puffs of air on his bare neck and shoulder timed with the rise and fall of her breathing.

 

_Wasn't a dream._

 

He stretches luxuriously, hearing the telltale _pop_ in his shoulders and back, and grins in self-satisfaction.

 

He'd banged Susan fucking Cooper.

 

He laughs out loud at his unbelievable luck.

 

Susan fucking Cooper, in _his_ bed. God, this had to be the best damn Christmas in his entire life.

 

"Shush," comes a muffled grumble.

 

"Who you shushin'?" he calls, tugging the duvet down off her shoulders.

 

_Beautiful. Abso-fuckin'-lutely beautiful._

 

She paws a bit of hair out her face, cracking open one eye to peer out from under her fringe.

 

"Morning," she says softly.

 

"Morning, my darlin'. You sleep alright?"

 

"Still in progress," she yawns, stretching. He feels her body move against him, and his cock stiffens with interest.

 

"Not a mornin' person, Miss Coopah?" He runs a hand down her back and over her ass under the duvet.

 

"Need a wakeup call?" He pinches her ass cheek.

 

She giggles, working herself onto her side.

 

He traces the outline of her face, tucking bits of haphazard wisps of hair behind her ear.

 

"What time is it?" she yawns, blinking.

 

"Dunno," he murmurs, brushing his thumb along her bottom lip. "Don't really fuckin' care."

 

She nips the pad of his thumb, wriggling a hand out from under the covers and lifting up the edge of the duvet.

 

"I had sex with Rick Ford," she whispers, peeking at his naked body. She grins. "Rick flipping Ford."

 

He can hear himself inhale through his nose as his chest swells to bursting.

 

He rips the duvet from her and flings back the covers, baring his body to her. His cock stands proudly at attention.

 

"Didn't you just."

 

"Jeez Louis," she breaths, circling his cock with her hand and straining to touch her middle finger and thumb together. She glances up at him in wide-eyed disbelief when she can't. "What are you, part-rhinoceros?"

 

He barks a laugh, tucking his hands behind his head and letting his eyes drift closed as she strokes him up and down, palm rolling over the head.

 

Her fingertips trace the dips in his hips above his pelvis, the lines of his abs.

 

"Seriously, who - who has a body like this? It's like you're photo-shopped."

 

_Put that in your fuckin' pipe and smoke it, Fancy._

 

He flexes his pecs, alternating right and left. "Like that, do you?"

 

"Ha! Well, I… You are _very_ in-shape…"

 

"Think so?"

 

He coils and springs so fast she doesn't have time to react, rolling her onto her back and caging her with his arms on either side of her head.

 

"Jiminy Christmas, Rick!"

 

He nudges her knees apart with a leg between hers and gives her a predatory smirk.

 

"Wanna see 'ow in shape I am?" he rumbles, rubbing his hard cock over her mound and the soft swell of her belly. He can feel her slit is already wet.

 

She runs her hands over his biceps and shoulders, breath shaky and lips parted.

 

God, is this really happening? Is she really here, lying under him, naked and wet and covered in love bites at _whatever-the-fuck_ o'clock in the morning?

 

He dips his head, catching her plump bottom lip between his.

 

She makes a muffled sound, pushing at his shoulders.

 

"What?"

 

Nose wrinkling, she fans her face delicately. "You have coochy breath."

 

He blinks.

 

_The nerve of this little chit…_

 

"Wonder 'ow _that_ 'appened," he drawls, trying his damnedest to look offended. Kind of hard when she's flashing him those dimples.

 

"Come on, tiger." She gives his bicep a _tut-tut_.

 

"Rick, I need to pee. Now," she warns when he doesn't budge.

 

"Alright, alright - up you go, then."

 

He helps her wrestle out of the covers and onto her feet, brow creasing in worry when she winces a little at her first few steps.

 

"I'm ok," she assures him, giving his arm a little rub. "Just a little sore."

 

She eyes his cock warily - still half-hard - as she adds, "Understandably."

 

He feels a pinch of guilt in his chest.

 

_Can't be 'elped, mate._

 

He must have a look on his face, because she says, "Really, Rick, I'm fine."

 

He takes extra care with her anyway, holding her hand as she steps into the shower after she's peed and they've both brushed their teeth with his tooth brush.

 

"Temperature ok?" he asks, adjusting the showerhead to spray a bit lower. She's so much shorter than he is, and he doesn't want her getting blasted in the face.

 

"Feels amazing," she murmurs, gathering her hair off of her shoulders and closing her eyes as the water hits her breasts.

 

Her necklace is caught in her hair at the nape of her neck; she tilts her head for him as he gently untangles it, righting the chain.

 

She gives him a thousand-watt smile as she fingers the pendant. "Merry Christmas, Rick."

 

"Happy Christmas, my darlin'."

 

She insists on soaping him up first, forgoing a washrag and lathering the bar in her hands.

 

"You're so furry," she says softly, combing her fingers through his chest hair.

 

"Mmm."

 

He jerks a little when she tickles playfully under his arm.

 

"Hold still," she chides, biting her lip to keep from grinning.

 

His balls are aching, cock stiff as a board, when she finishes rinsing him off.

 

"My turn," he growls, catching her wrist and squeezing the soap bar out of her slippery hand.

 

He hears her breath hitch as he lathers her tits, circling her nipples with his thumbs. He soaps every inch of her, smirking at her startled jump when his hand slips between her ass cheeks and his soap-slicked fingers brush her pucker.

 

"Rick!" She gives his chest a hard, wet _slap!_

 

"Just bein' thorough," he chuckles, cupping her sex in his hand.

 

He kneels, feeling the water beating lightly against his head and shoulders, and gently pushes her soft thighs wide apart.

 

She's nice and slick for him as he licks her slit in long, lazy laps.

 

"Oh God," she huffs above him. He feels her weight shift as she tucks herself into the tiled corner of the shower.

 

He decides not to finger her, worried she's too tender for that this soon after he's fucked her. He presses his tongue into her instead, chin working as he strokes the inside of her cunt.

 

He hears her mewling over the drum of the water on the tiles.

 

Drawing back to circle her clit with his tongue, he rises up on his knees a bit, shoulders shoring up her trembling thighs, and grabs handfuls of her ass. He grinds her against his face as he flicks the little dip in her clit over and over.

 

She comes shuddering and shrieking.

 

_A bloke could get used to 'earin' that sound in the mornin'._

 

He stands, steadying himself with  a hand on the glass door as his knees threaten to buckle, and opens his mouth, letting the water pool and flow over, rushing down his chin. He swishes and spits, breathing a bit ragged.

 

She's still panting as she tugs him to her, thumbs hooked into the dips of his hips and tongue darting out to lick her lips.

 

He braces his forearm on the wall above her, dipping to kiss her forehead as she takes him in her hand.

 

He hisses as she thumbs the beads of precum that have leaked out, spreading it over the head. She strokes down his shaft, squeezing lightly.

 

"Fuck Susan."

 

She drags her hand to the head, twisting her wrist and clenching around it before sliding to the base again. Up and down, up and -

 

"God damn - fuck yes."

 

She picks up the pace a bit - just a notch - tilting her head back enough to rub her nose against his Adam's apple.

 

"Faster?"

 

Her breath is hot on his throat as he swallows, nodding.

 

"Yes - feels so good…"

 

She adds a roll of her palm over the head of his cock to her wrist-twist.

 

"Shit - Susan," he moans, hips bucking up into her hand.

 

"Like that, baby?" she murmurs, covering his jawline with open-mouthed kisses and kitten licks.

 

"Yes… fuck. Like when… you call me… that - sweet fuckin' Jesus!"

 

She's cupped his balls, rolling them in her hands and squeezing _just enough_.

 

He's thrusting into her hand now, both arms braced on either wall, nose buried in her hair and head of his cock butting into her soft stomach with each upward stroke. His calf and thigh muscles are flexing so hard his legs shake.

 

"Kiss me, Rick."

 

He dips his head; she catches his mouth with hers, running her tongue along his. She sucks and tugs and nips at his bottom lip.

 

He groans low in his throat, chest rumbling.

 

 _So fuckin' hot_.

 

"Susan…" He's too close to care that the edges of his voice are frayed and needy.

 

"Come on, Rick. Come for me." She sucks his throat, pants against his hot skin, strokes him faster. "Come for me, baby."

 

God, when she calls him that -

 

His gut tenses, balls tightening in her hand.

 

She tilts her head, watching his face as his eyes clench shut. He hears his toes cracking as they curl, hips jerking as he pumps into her thrusts, a shudder cracking like a whip down his spine.

 

"Fuck - Susan!"

 

She milks him for all he's worth, long white ribbons of cum coating her stomach, her thighs.

 

Chin tucked in her hair, he rasps, struggling to catch his breath. His biceps tremble with the effort of holding his weight off her.

 

 "So -" She cranes her neck back.

 

He leans back a bit, admires the picture of her pretty face bracketed by his muscular arms.

 

She gives him a sweet smile, looking up at him through her lashes and the bit of fringe sticking to her forehead. "What's a girl gotta do to get fed around here?"

 

He chuckles, but it's more of a shaky rush of air than a real laugh. "That. Girl's got to do exactly that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just... there's no other way to say it: pure smut. Smut for smut's sake. Gah... I just can't stop!
> 
> *takes a deep breath* Ok, I'm cool. *shakes shoulders* I'm cool.
> 
> There will be *actual* talking and things in the next chappie. I *swear*.


	13. Simply Having A Wonderful Christmas Time, Part II

“Ugh! Rick, what is _in_ this?” she yells over the whirl of the blender.

 

He hits the _Off_ button, scowling as he props a hand on his hip. His hand slips on his nylon tracks, ruining the effect a bit.

 

He jabs his chin at her glass. “Whassa matter?”

 

“It tastes like,” she takes another sip, grimacing up at him. “Grass. And plastic. Why is it gritty?” Gingerly, she peels back the blender lid, peering warily into the pitcher like something might crawl out of it.

 

He snorts. She is unbelievable.

 

“S’got whey protein, couple ‘andfuls of spinach, egg whites -”

 

“ _Raw_ egg whites?” She takes another sip, wrinkling her nose. “You drink this every morning?”

 

He folds his arms over his chest, sleeves of his tee shirt straining as he flexes his biceps. “What of it?”

 

“Jeez, no wonder you’re so intense.”

 

She pads to the fridge, tugging open the door and hunting through the various tupperware packed with last night’s leftovers until she finds the one she’s looking for.

 

Snapping the lid off the container with a _pop_ , she rifles through his silverware drawer for a spoon.

 

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” he grouses as she plops two heaping soup-spoonfuls of whipped cream into her smoothie. She shrugs nonchalantly at him as she stirs.

 

“Does everythin’ you put in your mouth ‘ave to taste like cake?”

 

“Lucky for you, no,” she replies haughtily, give him a saucy look over the rim of her glass.

 

His cock twitches at the image _that_ remark conjures up.

 

She smacks her lips. “Better.”

 

It’s his turn to make a face. “That’s just foul.”

 

She sits at the breakfast bar, wobbling a bit on the stool to as she tries to get comfortable, and watches him wash dishes with her elbows propped on the counter, chin perched on top of where she’s laced her fingers together.

 

She looks so young; face freshly scrubbed and hair gathered up in a ponytail. She’s smiling faintly, dimples just peeking out under the apples of her cheeks.

 

“I tell you ‘ow pretty you are today, sweet’eart?” he rumbles.

 

She blushes fetchingly.

 

“Sure you don’t want some help?” she asks, sipping carefully at the now near-overflowing glass of protein shake.

 

“Positive,” he nods, elbow-deep in warm, soapy water. “Like washin’. S’relaxin’.”

 

“Well, that makes one of us!” she chirps, tugging at the neckline of her sweater. “Man, I don’t remember this being so uncomfortable yesterday.”

 

“S’cause it’s on backwards,” he says without looking up from the suds. His lips twitch to hide his grin. “And wrong-side-out.”

 

_Get dressed in a daze, darlin’?_

 

“Ah.”

 

He snickers.

 

She leans over the counter, breasts pressing together distractingly, and dips her fingers in the dishwater. She flicks him.

 

“Oi, watch it!” He rubs his nose against his shoulder, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing as he admonishes her sternly, “You’ll put a bloke’s eye out like that!”

 

She laughs - a hearty, pleasant sound that warms him through - and crooks her finger at him.

 

He obeys, leaning in until her lips press against his in a soft kiss.

 

The humor dancing in her pretty green eyes when they pull apart makes his chest ache a bit.

 

“Now, you sit your bum down and drink your milkshake.”

 

She snorts into her smoothie.

 

__________________________________________________

 

In hindsight, he should have disconnected her spark plugs. Or at the very least done a better job of hiding her car keys.

 

“Don’t see why you ‘ave to go, sweet’eart,” he says for the fifth time as the lift opens, beyond caring that he sounds like a whining puppy.

 

“ _Rick_ ,” she giggles, trying hard to sound annoyed at his pleading.

 

He catches her by the waist halfway to her car, tugging her to him and gripping the swell of her ass lightly.

 

She sighs dramatically, looking up at him through her lashes. Her little red heels dangle from one hand, the fingertips of the other walk lightly up the center of his chest.

 

“I need to go home and change.”

 

“Wear somethin’ of mine,” he murmurs, pressing against her.

 

She snorts, tickling his Adam’s apple. “I don’t think you have anything that’ll fit,” she says dryly.

 

“Let me come with you, then,” he rumbles, eyes hooded at the feeling of her fingertips dancing along his jawline.

 

“Rick, please - I _need_ sleep,” she insists softly.

 

“I won’t bother you, I swear,” he whispers, nipping the pad of her ring finger as she traces the seam of his lips. “I’ll be quiet as a mouse in church.”

 

“No,” she whispers back, smiling as she cups his head and drags him down for a kiss, rising onto her tiptoes to meet him.

 

The kiss is long and soft - a bittersweet ache radiates from his sternum and pushes against his ribcage.

 

“You’re breakin’ my heart, darlin’,” he breathes when they pull apart, framing her face in his hands and resting his forehead on hers.

 

Her eyes crinkle in a smile as she rubs her nose against his. “You’ll live.”

 

_Don’t think so, darlin’._

 

“Which one you want, then?” he asks, tucking her hand in at his elbow to reluctantly escort her to her car.

 

“Which one what?”

 

“Which car you want to drive? The A8’s bit tricky to get the ‘ang of - she’s got a lot of ‘orsepower for a sedan ‘er size and she can lose ‘er grip in a turn. Might not want to start with the Turismo; she’ll stall on you quicker than the others if you’re not fast enough with ‘er. But you pick any you like, luv. S’all the same really, when it comes to learnin’ the fundamentals.”

 

She chews her lip as she eyes the different cars consideringly. “What about the Beamer?”

 

He nods. “The 750? She’ll do you right, your first time. Easy ‘andle, not too persnickety about the timin’ either.”

 

She does a rather impressive imitation of Miranda’s wiggle-stomp, adding her own flourish to the clam shell _clap_ at the end. “Fantasic! Beamer it is.”

 

He chuckles as he opens her door for her. “Alright, pick you up at two in the 750 then.”

 

She glances meaningfully at her watch as she throws her purse onto the passenger seat. “It’s one-thirty now, Rick.”

 

He bites back a cheeky grin, nodding like he realizes his mistake. “Right, right. Two-thirty it is.”

 

She rolls her eyes as she climbs in. “Six.”

 

“Three-forty-five?” he counters, trying to close her door before she can argue.

 

“Six,” she calls back, clicking in her seat belt.

 

“Four o’clock, on the dot,” he shouts, saluting her.

 

She braces the heels of her hands on the steering wheel, holds up all five fingers of her right hand and one on her left hand, trying to mouth _Six_ as she laughs.

 

____________________________________________

 

The sky is already darkening as he drives to her flat, whistling along with _Under My Thumb_ while he taps out the drum beat against the steering wheel. He’d splashed on a bit of _Hugo Boss_ and snapped on his Rolex before he’d left, wearing the gray Ralph Lauren pullover she likes. The streets of downtown Arlington are quiet and empty the way they only are on Christmas day - everyone’s tucked snug into their cheery little homes with their happy little families.

 

The thought pinches his chest a bit, until he remembers how he convinced Cooper to ditch hers and spend the holiday with him.

 

He laughs out loud, grinning like a fool.

 

It’s a quarter-til-six when he pulls into her complex. The tension that’s usually hanging around his neck and shoulders has melted and he feels loose, light on his feet as he gets out of the car.

 

He bounds up the steps to her flat two-at-a-time, cold air stinging his lungs pleasantly as he inhales deeply.

 

As he raps on her door, he notices one of her neighbors has draped strands of white lights along their balcony railing. The sight reminds him of their first date at Oyamel. The way she’d looked in her blue dress, that bit at her tits sparkling in the candle light as she laughed...

 

There’s that strange flutter in his gut again when he hears the lock turn in the strike, and he wonders if maybe he should have eaten something before he left.

 

The door opens and she’s so achingly pretty in her winter white sweater dress and denim leggings. She’s tucked into a pair of tan boots with fleece lining and little fur pom-poms at the ends of the laces. The necklace he gave her sparkles in her cleavage, and she’s done that foxy thing with her eyeliner that he likes so much.

 

“You’re earl -”

 

He gathers her in his arms for a kiss. She’s so unbelievably fucking soft, and her hair is warm when he tangles his fingers in it. Their lips make soft, sensual sounds as they kiss; he feels her hands smooth over his chest as she drapes her arms about his neck.

 

“God I fuckin’ missed you,” he breaths when they pull apart, butting his nose against her cheek. He’s pleased to see she’s a bit breathless, plump lips parted and pupils blown wide.

 

“You smell so good,” she murmurs, tilting her chin to catch his mouth with hers.

 

He kicks the door closed behind him, and she backs him up against it, chain lock clanging against the wood as he hits it with a dull _thud_.

 

He buries one hand in her hair at the nape of her neck and kneads her ass with the other. “Hair’s so warm,” he rumbles when she breaks the kiss to suck and nip at his throat.

 

“I just took out my hot rollers,” she explains.

 

He nods, though he doesn’t have a fucking clue what those are.

 

“I really like this sweater.” She runs her hands up and down his arms. “So soft.”

 

“Want it?” He gasps as she nips his shoulder through the material.

 

“Oi!” He jerks when she tickles playfully under his arms. “Watch it!”

 

She gives him cheeky little grin as she moves away - he makes a clumsy grab for her, cock hard as a rock and feeling a bit punch-drunk. He really should have eaten something before he left.

 

“What?” she asks when she turns back to him, keys in hand and handbag slung over her shoulder.

 

“Nothin’,” he says, trying to wipe the stupid grin off his face. “You eat yet?”

 

She snorts, giving him a _do-you-really-have-to-ask_ look. “Do you want a snack?”

 

“Wouldn’t mind a bite, luv.”

 

_God, she is so fuckin’ sexy…_

 

She leads him through the sitting room and into the kitchen. It’s small - just a galley kitchen with a bit of counter space and an icebox. It’s a small flat overall, he notices, and a bit older. From the 70’s, he thinks. But it’s warm and cozy; it looks like what he’d pictured, when he’d imagined…

 

“ - yogurt, I’ve got cereal, I’ve got granola bars. What tickles your fancy?”

 

_You, darlin’._

 

“Got any ‘ard boiled eggs? Or a bit of sandwich meat?”

 

She hands him a packet of sliced ham.

 

“Thank you, sweet’eart.”

 

“You’re very welcome!”  
  


She bustles around the kitchen while he eats, sneaking glances at him from under her lashes.

 

He winks at her when she catches his eye. She giggles.

 

“Where’sa rubbish bin?” he asks when he finishes, crumpling the package in his hand. At her confused look, he tries, “Trash?”

 

“Oh! Right here.” She opens the cabinet door under the sink, pointing to the bin tucked underneath it.

 

“Ok!” She claps, eyes bright with anticipation as she gathers up her keys and handbag again. “I’m ready!”

 

His lips twitch to hide his grin. “Aren’t you just.”

 

He steals another kiss as he helps her into her coat. On their way out, she stoops to scoop up a duffel she’s set by the door.

 

“S’that got your nightie and toothbrush?” he asks, unable to disguise his amused grin as he holds the door for her.

 

She beams up at him as she squeezes between him and the doorjamb. “First rule I tell my students: Always come prepared to class.”

 

“And what’ll you be teachin’ me tonight, Miss Coopah?” he rumbles, taking the duffel from her and offering her his arm as they start down the stairs.

 

She tucks her hand into his elbow, pats his arm with her other hand. “Can’t tell you; it’s a pop quiz.”

 

“S’not very nice, is it?” he teases, opening the driver door for her. “Quizzin’ a bloke when ‘e ‘asn’t ‘ad a chance to study.”

 

He drops the keys in her hand, trying not to chuckle outright when her breath hitches in excitement.

 

She rises onto her tiptoes, balancing herself with a hand on his chest, and presses a soft kiss to his lips. “Something tells me you’ll ace it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like Ford and Cooper are officially an item now! Wonder what's next...
> 
> Thank you for your comments! XO


	14. You Can Be My Wingman Anytime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford gets by with a little help from his friends.

“Needs new spark plugs, fans out, transmission’s got to be flushed, and the timin’ belt could do with replacin’.” He braces himself against the grill, looking at her around the hood’s kickstand.

 

“What you keep this piece of shit for, Sharon?”

 

“It’s paid for,” she responds dryly, gathering her hair up in a messy top knot and securing it with the hair tie keeps around her wrist.

 

She looks tired.

 

“It’s been bouncing a lot too - not so much on the highway, but definitely on the surface streets.”

 

He nods, kneeling at the front-passenger-side wheelwell. “Needs new shocks.”

 

He stands, wiping his hands with the rag he’s tucked into the back pocket of his Levis.

 

“Can you fix it?” she asks, trying to look nonchalant as she nibbles at her chipped polish.

 

_Money tight again, luv?_

 

He gives her a cocky grin. “Don’t be daft. Course I can fix it.”

 

She breathes a sigh of relief. “Groovy.”

 

“Got some plugs lyin’ round that should work, and I can rig the fan and flush the trans today, but I’ll need to order the belt and the struts. ‘and me that ratchet,” he points to the third drawer of his red Husky.

 

She snorts. “I get to be your Vanna White today?” she asks, riffling through the tool chest loudly.

 

“Little less lip, if you please,” he shoots back in the mock _look-here-Missy_ tone he knows she hates, taking the ratchet from her with a tug. “And pay attention this time, yah? Maybe you’ll learn somethin’.”

 

She sits on his tool bench while he works, texting and tossing him tools and sassy quips. He grins the entire time - she’s funny in her droll way, and she’s always been able to make him laugh, even on his darkest days. He looks forward to these lazy Sunday afternoons, few-and-far-between as they are now. Working on her piece of shit Chevy in his garage, grabbing a pint and sharing a basket of chips at the pub, watching a football match in her ratty little flat, her cursing like a sailor and pounding the coffee table with her fist when his team scores a goal.

 

“Whoah, Mav - what the hell happened to your coffee table?” She jerks her head to where he’s got it upside-down on a tarp in a corner of the garage, legs clamped to the top with buckle-straps while the wood glue dries.

 

“Broke it, didn’t I?” he replies casually, snapping the seal on a fresh bottle of transmission fluid. “Been a bit busy lately, ‘aven’t ‘ad a chance to mend it till just before you got ‘ere.”

 

“How did you -” She catches his shit-eating grin before he can duck under the hood again. “Oh my GOD, Ford! Did you break your fucking coffee table doing it with Susan Cooper?!”

 

He sniffs, thumbs his nose, and gives her a sideways look. “Might ‘ave.”

 

“If that’s what the _coffee table_ looks like, it’s a miracle poor Susan can hobble into work at all!”

 

He laughs out loud at that, shoring up one arm with the other to steady his hand as he pours the trans fluid.

 

“So - is she as prim and proper as all those cardigan twin-sets she wears? Or does she have a wild side? What’s that saying, _A lady in the streets and a freak in the sheets_?”

 

An image of Cooper, thick thighs hiked up under his arms and black lace nightie bunched under her tits, her belly jiggling wildly as he’d pounded into her for all he's worth, flashes in his mind. Was that last night, or night-before-last?

 

From the sting of the scratches on his back as he hunkers down to slide out the oil pan, he’d say last night.

 

“Oh, Goosey.” He doesn’t look up from where he’s crouched, inspecting for leaks. “You know I don’t kiss and tell.”

 

“Since when?” she snorts. She imitates him in a ridiculous attempt at a British accent. “ _I ever told you bout the time I banged Abdulaziz al Salman’s third consort? Broad tried to give me a jewel-encrusted sword and thirty head of ‘er ‘usband’s best camels as payment! Refused ‘er, o’ course. All in a day’s work in ‘er Majesty’s service, I said._ ”

 

“Well she did!” he defends, ruffled. He slams the Husky drawer closed with a _bang_.

 

“Puh-lease, Ford. That’s total bullshit. Can you even spell Abdulaziz?”

 

“Didn’t say I was competin’ against her in a spelling bee, did I?” He gives her a cheeky grin, waggling his eyebrows. “ ‘sides, who could resist this?” he asks, lifting his shirt and jabbing a finger at his abs. He gives her a _what-what_ head bob.

 

She cringes. “I just vomited a little in my mouth.”

 

He tosses his grease rag at her as he strolls to the lift. “Oh, grow the fuck up.”

 

“Really? Me grow the fuck up?” She scoffs, hopping off the bench and muttering under her breath, “Un-fucking-believable.”

 

He presses the _Close Door_ button once he’s inside the lift, waving goodbye as the doors begin to slide shut.

 

“ _Ford_!” she shouts, scrambling for the doors, “if you lock me in this damn garage again -”

 

He barks a laugh, hitting the _Open Door_ button at the last second.

 

“Goin' up?” he asks innocently.

 

She makes a disgusted noise. “What does she see in you?”

 

“Don’t ‘ave a fuckin’ clue,” he grins.

 

_________________________________________________________

 

He drinks Newcastle while she sips a glass of that moscato shit he buys for just such an occasion. They eat Chinese out of the cartons and play cards at his dining room table.

 

“How’s ole Danny-boy?” he asks around a mouthful of pork fried rice as he shuffles.

 

She smiles - it’s the only time she ever smiles a real smile, when she’s talking about Daniel.

 

“Dan’s good. Real good. Having a some trouble with reading; his teacher said he’s memorizing the words, and not learning to, you know, sound them out or whatever.” She shrugs. “Dad’s been helping him - I think he’s glad to have something to do now that he’s _officially retired_ -” she makes air quotes, “and Dan seems to be getting better. He’s a wiz at math, though.”

 

He chuckles as he deals their hands. “Not gettin’ in anymore scraps, is ‘e?”

 

She shakes her head, smiling again and covering her mouth to hide her kungpow chicken as she says, “No! Not since you talked to him. You put the fear of God in that kid.”

 

“Nah.” He bats away her words with a hand. “ ‘e’s a good lad. Just needs a proper role model in ‘is life. Fifty.”

 

He tosses two green chips into the pot, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling when she sputters.

 

“You? Oh, God Ford - the last thing I need is another _you_ to run around behind. I don’t think my Ikea living room set could take it. Call.”

 

She flips in two green chips of her own.

 

He snatches a dumpling out of her container, popping it into his mouth with a frown. “S’that an insult or a compliment? Can’t tell.”

 

“Both,” she concedes, daintily plucking up his eggroll right from under his nose. She takes a bite with a loud _crunch_.

 

“Gimme that,” he holds his hand out. “How are things with what’s-’is-face? Bobby, Benny - “

 

“Bronson.” She shrugs, rearranging her hand. “He’s cool.”

 

“Yah?” His eyes narrow over his bottle as he takes a swig. Sharon could have real shit taste in men sometimes, and he hasn’t had a chance to vet this little twat yet. Nothing too bad, just a string of blokes who didn’t have their shit together and were _still figuring things out_.

 

“Yeah. He’s got a good gig. Developer, builds data shit. Works in the building - ATF.” She tucks one of her legs under her bum, takes a sip from her glass, watching as he turns a card. “Fold.”

 

“Good choice - two pair.” He gathers up the cards, tapping them against the table to straighten the deck. “Your deal. By-the-by, you ever ring Nick back?”

 

_Now, there’s a bloke that’d make ‘er ‘appy. Or at least give ‘er a decent couple a’ months before she ran ‘im off._

 

“Nick Davidson?” Her nose scrunches. “Why would I call Nick Davidson?”

 

“Come off it; e’s only been chasin’ you since you tossed ‘im arse-over-tits to the practice floor.” He smirks, remembering Nick’s daffy expression when he’d told Ford about Sharon’s hand-to-hand exam.

 

“ ‘e’s a good bloke, Nick. I like ‘im.”

 

“That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement, Ford,” she snorts as she deals. Fanning her cards in her hands, she changes the subject.

 

“So, Mav - how are things going with the _fabulous_ Susan Cooper? This is the first time you two have come up for air in, what, three - four weeks?”

 

She taps the table to check.

 

He grins like a fool as he taps back. “S’been that long?”

 

Turning a card, she offers him a faint half-smile. “Time flies when you’re having fun.”

 

There’s something about the way she says it, he can tell she’s thinking back to Baghdad, to Travis.

 

“You should ‘ave a little yourself, Goosey,” he says softly, watching her fidget as she pokes her rice.

 

“I’m a mom - fun ended the day Dan learned how to run and hold something at the same time,” she snorts. “Besides, why make my own when I can hear all about yours?”

 

She taps the table to check.

 

He shakes his head, tosses in a black chip. “Raise. What you been 'earin’ about me?”

 

“Word in the bunker is: you’re banging Fine’s handler and he’s not too happy about it.”

 

He grins so wide it nearly splits his face in two. “Ole Fancy got ‘is knickers in a twist? Should’ve pulled the trigger when ‘e ‘ad the shot.”

 

 _Give my left nut to see the look on that wanker’s face when ‘e ‘eard_.

 

She calls, tossing in four green chips and turning a card.

 

“He’s not so much _jealous_ , as like… completely fucking pissed off that it’s _you_ she’s seeing.”

 

He gives her a look that says, _don’t-be-daft-everyone-wants-my-girl_. “Course ‘e’s jealous. ‘ow did the little twat find out, anyway? Was it Susan who told ‘im?”

 

Sharon shakes her head. “Nancy told Leslie, Karen’s new analyst, and Leslie told Karen. I think Karen told Fine.”

 

_Bet she fuckin’ did. Wait -_

 

“Nancy?” _Who the fuck is Nancy?_

 

“Cress’s handler.” Sharon holds her hand about a foot above her head. “Tall. Kind of a barker.”

 

 _Tall, kind of a…_ “ ‘orse face?”

 

She nods, clinking her glass against his bottle. “That’s the one.”

 

His face wrinkles in confusion. “ ‘ow the ‘ell did she find out?”

 

“They’re like, best girlfriends.”

 

“ ‘er and Fancy? Well, that makes sense, doesn’t it?”

 

Sharon laughs her robotic _ha ha ha_ as she taps the table to check.

 

He tries to sound casual. “Susan said anything about it? About Fine findin’ out?”

 

She picks his bottle cap off the table, rolls it between her knuckles, avoiding his eyes. “Not a word, Boss.”

 

He can always tell when she’s lying to him; it’s why they never play for money. That, and she doesn’t have any. And he’s an unapologetic cheat.

 

“Sharon, sweet’eart - it’s not nice to lie to your old chum, Ford. What are you not tellin’ me?”

 

“It’s just… Be careful, ok? Susan’s really cool and all -”

 

She raises a hand when he opens his mouth to retort.

 

“She is, totally. I like her - although I don’t think she likes me very much - but that’s not the point. This is: Fine _hates_ you. Like, _hates-your-guts_ hates you. And he has this weird…. power over Susan.”

 

His gut clenches at that. “What you mean?”

 

She gives him a look that says, _You’ve got to be kidding me_. “You know what I mean, Ford.”

 

He slaps his cards down, feels an angry tightening in his chest, like it’s clamped in a vice. It’s the kind of anger that shrinks to a single pinpoint and then explodes.

 

“Actually, Sharon,” he snarls, “I don’t. Because if memory serves, I fucked her on this table -”

 

He jabs his finger into the table for emphasis; Sharon snatches her fork up with a quiet _Ew_.

 

“This morning and she was screamin’ _my_ name, not _‘is_. So no, I don’t ‘ave the first fuckin’ idea what you mean.”

 

_Stupid twit doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talkin’ about…_

 

She sighs, rubs her temples, completely unimpressed by his blustering. “Yes, yes, you’re the one banging her - no one doubts that. I’m just saying: watch your back, dude. Fine has had it in for you ever since Bangkok, and this is his golden ticket. And believe me, he knows it.”

 

“Bangkok?! I saved that ungrateful little shit’s arse -”

 

She makes a chopping motion with her hand as she cuts him off. “Look - I get it. I was there, remember? He’s a shitbag - you won’t get any argument from me. But Susan doesn’t get it. She doesn’t know what he’s like.”

 

“Doesn’t matter, does it? She knows what _I’m_ like.” He jabs his finger at his chest.

 

Sharon snorts into her wine glass. “Does she? I doubt it.”

 

“Course she does. Been seein’ ‘er for a month!”

 

She nods, mouth twisting into a smug little smile as she carefully sets her glass down. He’s knows this look too; it’s the one she gets when she knows he’s got a shit hand.

 

“Your birthday’s in what?” She looks up and to the corner, like she’s thinking. “Six days? Which means Mariah’s is in three. Have you told her about Mariah?

 

It stings like a slap in the face, and he flinches.

 

“No? Well, what a surprise. How about Sandra?”

 

“She 'asn’t... it 'asn’t come up -”

 

“Really? _It hasn’t come up_. What about your mom; has she _come up_? What about Kumasi, or Lebanon? How about your _consulting practice_? Has that _come up_? Has she asked you where all this -” she gestures at his flat, “came from? Has this woman asked you about _anything_? Jesus, I had her pegged completely wrong. Here I was, thinking she gave a shit about you. Whoops!”

 

She throws her hands up in the air, laughing coldly. “Turns out, she just wants your dick -”

 

“That’s enough!” he roars, slamming his fist down so hard their stacks of poker chips wobble and collapse, scattering across the table and onto the floor.

 

“Don’t,” he growls, pointing his finger in her face, “talk about ‘er like that.”

 

“Aahh.” She smiles slowly, calmly; that hard-edged smile that’s all sharp teeth. Like she’s got a full fucking house this time. “The truth comes out.”

 

_Fuck - blew it, mate._

 

He rubs his chin with his hand.

 

“She _did_ ask you, and you dodged it.” It’s her turn to point in his face, and she does it with a gloat that makes his gut twist. “You, my friend, are a pussy.”

 

He slumps back in his chair, scrubs his head. “Come on, now -”

 

“No, you are a pussy. You’re not dating, you’re not in a relationship - you’re fucking. God, Ford, you always do this!”

 

“I do not!”

 

“Yes,” she jabs her finger at him, “you do. Remember Laila, the dentist’s assistant?”

 

“She was a loon -”

 

“Oh really? How about LaTeisha?” She props her elbow on the table, starts ticking them off on her fingers.

 

“She ‘ad daddy-issues.”

 

She gives him a look that clearly says, _coming-from-you-that's-rich_. “What about the little redhead? What was her name? Chubby, sweet, she was a vet or something?”

 

“Melanie. Dog groomer. She was completely nutters -”

 

“Really, Ford? Every girl you’ve been with in the last, I don’t know, six years has been crazy? Seriously, dude? Future’s not looking too bright for you and Cooper, is it? Wonder what’s her problem. Depressed, you think? Bipolar? Oh, I know! Maybe she has a multiple personality disorder! Like a Betty Crocker-Mr. Hyde kind of thing -”

 

“Sharon -”

 

“Shut up. Shut the fuck up and listen to me. You have a _pattern_. You meet a girl, you sweep her off her feet with your designer clothes and your expensive cars and your swanky apartment. But at some point, she realizes: this is just a front. It’s all fake. You’re a ghost, never really out of one world or in the other.”

 

He feels his chest tighten again, but he’s not angry. Not really. He’s just… tired.

 

Sharon shifts in her chair; the chips on the table rattle as she reaches across them, covering his hands with hers. “When she leaves, you leave. For days, for months. And every time you come back, you bring back a little less of you.”

 

She makes a space between her thumb and finger.

 

“But honey - you keep this up, and one day there’s gonna be nothing left.”

 

Seeing her sitting there, eyes full of grief (for herself as much as for him), he thinks he was wrong. She doesn’t have a full house. She has a royal fucking flush.

 

He pulls his hands out from under hers to rub the heels into his eyes. “I can’t, Goosey.” He shakes his head, praying she'll stop fucking _looking at him like that_. “I just can’t.”

 

She sighs, smoothing the fly-aways off her face the way she does when she’s upset.

 

“Let me tell you something, Ford: Cooper trusts Fine. Why? She knows him - or at least she thinks she does. You can try and discredit him until you’re blue-in-the-face, and all it will do is push her further and further away. A woman doesn’t trust a man because she’s fucking him; she trusts him because she _understands_ him.”

 

She sits back, tucking her elbows into her sides and clasping her hands over her belly. “And how much does Cooper understand you?”

 

__________________________________________

 

The ride down the lift is mostly silent. He crosses his arms and braces his shoulder against the wall. Sharon shoves her hands into her pockets and props her hip on the opposite one.

 

As the lift slows to a stop, he hears her take a deep breath.

 

“Look, Ford -”

 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t ‘ave shouted -”

 

“I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

 

That pinches a bit, but he reaches across the lift for her anyway, tugging her to his side and throwing his arm over her shoulder as the doors open.

 

“Don’t worry about me, old girl. I’m indestructible.”

 

She snorts. “Give me a break.”

 

She slings her arm around his waist, and their mates again.

 

“Really is a piece of shit car, Sharon.”

 

“Fuck you, Ford.”

 

She tosses her purse onto the passenger seat.

 

“Hey,” she calls, tucking her hands into the pockets of her jeans.

 

“Is for ‘orses,” he replies, mirroring her by tucking his hands in his pockets and leaning against his tool chest.

 

“She’s a good one, Ford. Don’t know how the fuck you did it, but she’s a really good one.”

 

He scuffs his boot on the concrete. “Means a lot - comin’ from you.”

 

“And don’t be fooled by her Polly-Perfect facade either; she’s a lot tougher than she looks. She can take it.”

 

He grins salaciously. “Can’t she just.”

 

“Ugh! _Ford_.” She rolls her eyes, even as she raises her hand.

 

They high-five up top, stepping past one another, then reverse low-five.

 

“Later, Mav,” she calls as she climbs into the car.

 

“Later, Goosey.”

 

He shuts the driver door, thumps the hood when she turns the key and the engine starts. She shifts into reverse, the transmission engages with only a slight lurch. She gives him two thumbs up.

 

He thumps the hood twice more in response, watches her pull out of the garage bay and peal off around the corner. The squealing of her brakes fades as she exists the deck on the ground level.

 

An image of her, pregnant-as-all, one hand bracing her lower back and other clenched in a fist, shaking it at the used car salesman, crackles in his mind. That Impala was eight years old when she’d bought it for a song and a dance, now it was - what - fourteen years old? He’d been the one to put Daniel’s car seat in it the first time, her watching him like a hawk to make sure he’d done it properly, Danny-boy bundled in her arms.

 

The lift seems loud as it climbs towards his empty flat.

 

Three more days till Mariah’s birthday. She’d be twenty-five now.

 

 _Time flies when you’re having fun_.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this chapter and the next written for a while now; I wanted to get Ford-Coop established before I uploaded them. 
> 
> Sharon seems like a cool cat (from the whole three lines she had in the film) and Ford needed a bit of a kick in the balls from someone he trusts. I mean kick in the balls in the best possible way, of course :)
> 
> This chappie is dedicated to wanderingsmith, who inspired Sharon's more kick-ass qualities. (And let's be honest, inspires *my* more kick-ass qualities, too).


	15. Mariah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grab some tissues; shit's about to get real sad.

_“Happy bird-day, Ditch!”_

_He lifts her into his arms, grinning._

_“S’not my birthday, silly bit. It’s yours.” He honks her nose._

_“Happy bird-day to me?” she asks coyly, toying with his shirt button._

_He hikes her up his hip._

_“Yes, darlin’ - happy birthday to you. Blow out your candles and make a wish.”_

_She pokes him in the cheek._

_“I wish it your bird-day, Ditch.”_

_He snaps playfully at her finger. She shrieks in delight, hiding her hand behind her back._

_“You can’t say your wish out loud, silly bit. It won’t come true if you do.”_

_Giggling, she cups his ear in her hands and whispers loudly, “I wish it your bird-day, Ditch.”_

  


“ - and I said I’d ask you because you don’t really eat desserts.”

 

“S’wonderful, darlin’.”

 

“Rick, I’m in love. With Nancy. We’re lesbians. We’re running away together. I’m so sorry; I never meant to hurt you.”

 

“Mmm. S’great, luv.”

 

“Rick!” She claps her hands in front of his face.

 

“What!” He startles, snatching his knife off his plate.

 

Her wide-eyed surprise melts into concern.

 

“What is going on with you? You’ve been on another planet for the last half-hour.”

 

_Shit - bollocks - fuck -_

 

“So sorry, darlin’. What were we talking about?”

 

“Your birthday.”

 

_That’ll do it._

 

“Really sorry, luv. My mind just… wandered off. Haven’t been sleeping much.”

 

Her brow creases; she pushes her plate away, folds her arms on the table. Her breasts press together distractingly.

 

He tries a charming smile. “Dinner was delicious - excellent. Really enjoyed it -”

 

She raises a hand with a look that says, _give-me-a-little-credit-would-you?_

 

“Rick? What happened to Mariah?"

 

The smile slides off his face as something cold slips through his gut.

 

_S’alright, mate. Just play dumb._

 

"What?”

 

“You - you’ve been saying her name. In your sleep. Over and over again.” She swallows.

 

_Where her eyes this bright a minute ago?_

 

“You’ve -”

 

“S’nothing. Just a nightmare.” He feels the muscles in his shoulders bunching even as he brushes off her words with a nonchalant wave.

 

_Nothing gets past the clever Miss Coopah, does it?_

 

She growls in exasperation. “It’s not nothing, Rick! I’m _worried_ about you. You’ve been out of it for the past three days - you’re distracted, sad. The things you say in your sleep...” She reaches her hand across the table, eyes pleading.

 

He shakes his head. “I’m fine, darlin’. S’just work -”

 

She throws her napkin down, propping her elbows on the table, and drops her head in her hands.

 

“Oh for heaven’s sake - Rick, _when_ are you going to let me in? I just - I just want to help.”

 

 _A woman doesn’t trust a man because she’s fucking him; she trusts him because she_ understands _him. And how much does Cooper understand you?_

 

He looks over the dinner table at their plates and glasses, at the candles burned down low in their holders. Were they really just sitting here, eating and laughing?

 

He thinks about her walking out that door and taking all the light in his life with her.

 

_Bloody 'ell._

 

“You want to know what ‘appened to ‘er? To Riah? She died.”

 

He says it casually, the way he’d say _Pass me the salt_ or _Think it’s goin’ to rain_.

 

She lifts her head and just... looks at him. Like she’s trying to find something that’s lost in his eyes.

 

The minutes stretch past.

 

She laces her fingers on the table and asks quietly, "What was she like?"

 

He thumbs the edge of his plate, focusing on the feel of smooth porcelain.

 

"Mariah was… She was brilliant. Sure of ‘erself. Short-tempered. She was just a babe when me mum married 'er father. 'er mother 'ad died - it was tragic.”

 

He can see Veronica and Natalie - grief-stricken and clinging to each other for dear life - sitting on the church steps on his mother’s wedding day, their baby sister tucked between them.

 

“I must ‘ave been thirteen. Riah was a year or so. Our birthdays were three days apart. Anyway, I fell 'ead-over-arse for 'er."

 

Realizing how that sounded, he rushes to explain, "Not like that -!"

 

"No! Of course not - I know what exactly you mean," Cooper nods with a warm, encouraging smile. She leans in, making a gentle motion for him to continue.

 

"It's just… I can't explain it. I loved 'er. And she - well, she 'ad me wrapped round 'er finger. And what little girl wouldn't love that?"

 

"I know the feeling," Cooper giggles, seeming genuinely delighted that he’s sharing this with her. 

 

He shoots her a look, but there's no animosity behind it, not really.

 

"She couldn't say _Richard_ or _Rick_ \- 'ad a lot of trouble with 'er R's when she was a little nip - so she called me _Ditch_."

 

Cooper smiles, nose crinkling. "Ditch?"

 

"S'right,” he grins, remembering how she'd point her little finger at her heels and call him to her side like a dog. _Ditch, Ditch!_

 

"Didn't get much time with 'er durin' the school semester. My step father felt a boy like me should be in boardin'. Said it made a lad too soft to spend so much time with 'is mum, 'e needed to be round other men. Learn 'ow to be a man."

 

He looks at his knuckles, remembering all the scruffs he got into.

 

"What about your mom? What did she think?" Cooper asks softly, trying to catch his eye.

 

He can’t keep the sneer out of his voice as a wave of anger washes over him. "She did whatever 'e said, didn't she?"

 

Cooper frowns, nodding with a look that says she’d already guessed as much.

 

"Anyway, doesn't have anythin' to do with Mariah."

 

He didn't sign up to tell his whole life story.

 

She chews her lip, thinking. He wonders what about.

 

Eventually, with a tentative smile and brighter tone, she asks, "Did Mariah like to hang out with you? When you were home?"

 

He snorts.

 

"Did she like to _‘ang out_ with me? A lad couldn’t get a moment to ‘imself with ‘er around! Ever I was 'ome, she was in my lap or eatin' off my plate or tryin' to sleep in my bed. She could be a right pest. But it was nice sometimes, you know? 'avin' someone follow you round, wanting to be like you."

 

He pictures her trotting alongside him, holding him by the ring finger, taking two steps for every one of his.

 

"Summers I'd take 'er swimin' or catchin' tadpoles and salamanders. Loved to come fishin’ with me, only she’d yak all the fish away. Christmas 'olidays I'd take 'er ice skatin' and to see the lights at Hyde Park. God, she'd spend all my fuckin' money, beggin’ for cocoa and toffee cigarettes."

 

Cooper laughs, eyes dancing with amusement.

 

"I shipped out with the British Army when I was twenty. I'd failed out of university and my stepfather was kind enough to pull a few strings and get me in under a chum of 'is."

 

The way he says the word _kind_ suggests anything but, even to his ears.

 

"I'd 'unted all my life and was a good shooter - the Army saw my potential and trained me up. I was top of my class in marksmanship. Only time I've ever been top of my class."

 

He gives Cooper a rueful smile.

 

"No 'ead for dates or figures, but I 'ad a real talent for killing things. People, mainly, as it turns out."

 

Cooper slides her hand across the tabletop, slips her fingers under his. "How did Mariah take it when you left?"

 

"Don't know 'ow she took it, but it nearly fuckin’ killed me. She was only eight when I shipped off; she clung to me like a baby monkey, screamin' 'er 'ead off and beggin' me not to go."

 

If he closes his eyes, he can hear her high-pitched screaming in his ears, feel her arms around his neck and her tears rubbing off on his cheek.

 

"Felt like the worst day of my life."

 

_Wasn't, of course._

 

He scrubs his hand over his face.

 

"Toured around in the Special Air Services. Came 'ome when I could: 'olidays, birthdays, whenever I could get off and see 'er."

 

"Did she stay mad at you for leaving?"

 

"Riah? No." He chuckles. "You could buy her forgiveness, couldn't you? But eventually," he sighs, "I stopped comin' round as much -"

 

"Work kept you busy?"

 

_Sandra kept me busy._

 

"Somethin' like that. Stayed away for a bit, you know, just bein' young and selfish."

 

He stops, rubs his chin with his hand.

 

"Anyway, I was honorably discharged in ninety-one -"

 

Her brow creases in confusion. "At twenty-eight? That's pretty young, isn't it, to quit SAS?"

 

_Oh no, luv. We're not openin' that can of worms._

 

"Dunno. I was done with it, and they gave me my severance and let me go. After that, I travelled round a bit, India and Bangladesh mostly."

 

_Tryin' to forget._

 

"Wasn't out six months before I got a post from Roni - 'ow she found my address in Mumbai, I dunno - that somethin' 'ad 'appened to Mariah. She didn't say what, just that I was to come 'ome soon as I could."

 

Cooper sits very still, listening intently and making slow circles on the back of his hand with her thumb.

 

"I came 'ome, and they told me that Riah 'ad run away. They couldn't find 'er, and they wanted my 'elp trackin' 'er down."

 

He clears his throat, looking at his hand in hers on the table.

 

"What happened to her?" Cooper asks quietly.

 

He looks into her big beautiful eyes, soft with pity. He doesn't think he can do this.

 

"She - there was a bloke. Some little ponce who went to the boy's school near 'ers. 'e was a lot older than 'er, and she fancied 'im. They went out a bit - didn't come round the house or nothin', just went out together - and one night 'e invited 'er to a party. When she got there, 'im and 'is friends were drinkin' and carryin' on…"

 

Cooper nods, mouth tightening in a grim line as she starts to understand.

 

"They wanted 'er to fool round with ‘im in front of 'is mates. She wouldn't, of course. Said she wanted to go 'ome. She pushed ‘im or somethin’ - she wasn’t afraid of a fight, I ‘ad taught ‘er to defend ‘erself -”

 

His throat works.

 

“They got angry - "

 

Natalie's cold, accusing tone comes rushing back to him, _You know how boys can be_.

 

His stomach twists, knuckles of his hand turning white as his fingers clench around Cooper’s.

 

She covers their hands with hers and whispers, "I understand."

 

He’s grateful she doesn’t make him spell it out for her.

 

"Saw the police photos, read the report, the doctor's charts - it's a wonder they didn't fuckin' kill 'er.”

 

_But then they did, really._

 

He chokes. “God, Riah…"

 

He presses thumb and forefinger of his other hand into his eyelids until the ache behind his eyes starts to fade.

 

"Did you find her?"

 

He thinks about the girl he dragged out of that shitbox motel in Utrecht, eyes hollow and lips bruised and arms covered in track marks.

 

_Never found ‘er. Not really._

 

"I found 'er, few times actually. ‘er father put 'er in residences and facilities and anythin' else 'e could throw 'is money at. S'long as it was _quiet_ , and _private_. She’d always get out though, wouldn’t she? Get out and get right back on the streets."

 

His jaw clenches.

 

"She even lived with me for a time. Brought ‘er ‘ere, to the States. I thought I might take care of 'er. Might make ‘er better.”

 

He scoffs bitterly. “I was a fuckin’ fool."

 

He'll never forgive himself for that fuck-up. In the long line of mistakes he's made, letting her slip through his fingers will always be the one that damns him the worst.

 

"She committed suicide,” Cooper whispers, face pinched in sadness as she puts the last piece of the puzzle in its place.

 

Mariah's little body, curled up in his tub, crackles in his mind.

 

He nods. " _Overdose_ , they called it. Thought she was sleepin' when I found 'er. Looked so peaceful."

 

He snorts, a hollow, hateful sound. 

 

"And the boys?" she asks quietly, sad eyes searching his.

 

His gut clenches. He thinks about lying to her, but something about the way she's looking at him tells him she’s already figured it out.

 

_God, you were a fucking fool to think she’d want a man like you._

 

"One of 'em was DOA, another died in IC. One was pronounced brain-dead; don't know if 'is parents kept 'im on the tube or not. One's burned so bad 'e'll never walk or talk again. Fifth one - the bloke she was seein' - went missin'. No one's found 'im."

 

_No one's goin’ to._

 

She closes her eyes.

 

An image of her, cupping her hand under a sauce spoon and blowing on it before offering him a taste, sweet little smile on her pretty lips, flashes in his mind. When was that - an hour ago? Two?

 

It feels far away now; like another lifetime. Like someone else's life.

 

_Was lovely while it lasted._

 

She exhales deeply. "Good."

 

His heart feels like it’s pressing out of his rib cage.

 

"Good?"

 

She looks him in the eyes; hers shine wet around the rim.

 

"Good." She dabs at them with her napkin, clears her throat. "Rick, I am _so_ \- I am so sorry that happened to you, to Mariah. I hope she’s found some peace."

 

“Susan -”

 

She covers his hands with hers. He’s mortified to realize his are shaking.

 

"What happened to her - what happened to her is not your fault. You are a good man, and a good brother. And she would be proud of you. She would be _so_ proud of you."

 

Something coiled tight in his chest starts to unravel; it rankles him with hot, stinging barbs.

 

_My baby girl._

 

“They killed 'er,” he whispers, so quiet he’s not sure she’s heard him - not sure he’s even said it - until she says,

 

“I know they did. I know.”

 

His throat is closing in, eyes burning and he won’t - he _can’t_ \- do this. Not here. Not like this.

 

“I can’t - I can’t -”

 

_Riah. They killed Riah. They killed his baby girl._

 

The sob rips out of him, and he’s choking - shit, he’s choking -

 

“They killed my baby girl… my baby… baby girl...”

 

"I know they did, baby. I know."

 

 _This_ is what he's been saying in his sleep, a part of him realizes. A part of him floating farther and farther away.

 

Her arms reach for him and he drops like a heap of bricks. Drops out of his chair, onto his knees, drops so hard the dishes and the silverware rattle on the table and the earth shakes all around him.

 

“Come here, sweet boy. Right here.”

 

He's pressing his face into her belly, sobbing so hard his ribs seem to collapse in on themselves, crushing his lungs, crushing his heart.

 

“They killed my baby girl! They - they - oh, God… Riah - Riah!”

 

He sobs so hard he dry-heaves, coughing and sputtering and hacking onto her sweater.

 

“That’s it.” She cradles him, arms around his thick shoulders, stroking his head and rocking. Back and forth, back and forth. “Let it out, baby boy,” she coos. “Let it all out.”

 

He gasps, trying to _stop this now_ , trying to drag air back into his lungs, but it just pumps right back out.

 

“Deep breaths, baby boy. Take deep breaths.”

 

She inhales; he feels her belly swell beneath him, tries to time his exhale with hers. He closes his eyes, body wracking in spasms, and concentrates on the rise and fall of her breath.

 

She rocks him back and forth, back and forth.

 

Slowly - _slowly_ \- he can breathe again. The raw sharp edges of pain dull, and there's just a muted throbbing behind his eyes.

 

Her sweater is soaked where he’s cried and drooled and snotted on her. He’s exhausted - his sobs have melted into shuddering breaths and he feels limp, spent.

 

“So tired,” he murmurs into her soft breasts. He feels like he’s been through an exorcism.

 

He looks up at her, embarrassed as fuck and thinking he’ll never forgive himself for this, and she looks back at him, cheeks wet and eyes red, and presses a soft kiss to his forehead.

 

It feels like absolution.

 

“Come on, baby," she whispers. "Let’s go to bed."

 

He stands, with a bit of effort, and offers her his hand as she gets up from her chair. She takes it, rising onto her tiptoes to kiss him with so much tenderness it makes his eyes prick again.

 

He lets her lead him by the same hand to his bedroom, lets her tuck him like a child. She curls around him, pressed warm and soft against his back, threading her fingers through his and tucking her chin in against his neck. The sound of her breathing lulls him into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

They lay this way through the night.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this written for a while as part of my character notes, and I decided to flesh it out into a chapter when I got comments from a few readers who were like, "What the heck happened to Mariah?"
> 
> It's been sitting on my drive for a while, waiting for Ford to get comfortable enough (or desperate enough) to share. Hope you enjoy.
> 
> Comments are so very much appreciated.


	16. Would You Be Mine? Could You Be Mine? Won't You Be... My Neighbor? Part I

It’s becoming one of his favorite things; watching her get ready in the mornings.

 

She’s stark naked, for one.

 

Standing at the bathroom counter, winding her hair in curlers and patting on lotions and creams without a stitch of clothes on. Something about not wanting to get powder or whatever-the-fuck on her outfit, she’d said.

 

She can stay like this all the livelong day, far as he’s concerned. She’s always covering herself up with something - a bedsheet, a towel, her robe. She doesn’t like to lie about naked, and she doesn’t like him to stare at her when she is.

 

Some ridiculous modesty-self-conscious bullshit he doesn’t understand. Women…

 

But here, on weekday mornings in the yellow-bright light of his bathroom, he can watch her putter about, hair all done and face made up and naked as the day she was born.

 

He fucking loves it.

 

It’s why he takes his time picking out his suit and brushing his teeth; why most mornings he makes his shake and takes it in there, sips it lolling on the edge of the tub as he soaks this in.

 

Susan Cooper. Naked. In his bathroom. In his life.

 

The back of her thighs ripple a little as she shifts her weight from foot-to-foot, humming bits of eighties pop songs to herself while she preens.

 

_Beautiful._

 

“- first day back?”

 

_Shit - was she talkin’ to me?_

 

“Whassat, luv?”

 

She makes a frustrated little sound, glancing sharply at his reflection as she dabs her makeup sponge along her cheek. “ _I said:_ do you think they’ll assign you to something your first day back?”

 

His lips twitch to hide his grin. “Dunno. S’possible.”

 

_Sure ‘ope not, sweet’eart._

 

“Well, I hope not,” she huffs, wiggling her mascara wand through her lashes and blinking.

 

Something warm unfurls in his chest.

 

“Yah,” he says softly. “Me too, sweet’eart.”

 

Her reflection gives him a half-smile that’s as vexed as it is affectionate.

 

His gives her a cheeky wink.

 

She caps her lippie with a smart _click_ , humming a bar from _Girls Just Want to Have Fun_ as she blots her lips with her fingertips.

 

_Show’s over, mate._

 

He sidles up behind her, snaking his arms around her big soft belly and burying his nose in her hair. He likes the overly-sweet smell right after she’s sprayed it and spritzed on her perfume, likes how it lingers in his bathroom and on his clothes when she’s gone for work.

 

His eyes meet hers in the mirror.

 

“I tell you ‘ow pretty you are today, sweet’eart?” he rumbles, cupping her tits in his hands. He sees her lashes flutter in her reflection as he rolls his thumbs over her pretty pink nipples.

 

She tilts her chin, craning her neck to catch his mouth with hers. He can taste her lipstick.

 

He turns her, pulling her flush against him and burying his hands in her hair.

 

_So warm._

 

He loves kissing her like this, when he can watch them together in the glass. He thinks it’s sexy how her creamy pale skin looks pressed against the crisp dark fabric of his suit, how large and strong his hands look kneading her tits and gripping her ass.

 

Their lips part with a wet _smooch_ as he bends at the knee, hiking her up onto the counter - _need to start deadliftin’ again, mate_ \- bottles and brushes clattering to the tile floor.

 

“ _Rick_ ,” she chides as she runs her fingertips under his collar, trying to look exasperated. “We’re going to be late.”

 

“I’ll drive real fast,” he promises, working his hands under her and grabbing handfuls of her ass to drag her to the edge of the counter.

 

 _Well, if you must_ , her sigh says, dimples peeking out under the apples of her cheeks as she fights a grin.

 

She fingers his suit lapel. “Leave it on?”

 

It’s not really a request.

 

He nods, fumbling to undo his pants button. He shoves his trousers and briefs down his hips, cock hard as a rock as it springs out from his waistband.

 

He hooks the back of her knee over his arm and spreads her legs wide apart so he can watch in the mirror as his cock pumps in and out of her.

 

“Oh Rick,” she mewls when he bottoms out, worrying her lip between her teeth.

 

“What you want, my darlin’?” he murmurs, breath already shaky at the feeling of how wet and tight she is.

 

He has to use his fingers, has stroke her clit and angle his thrusts to hit her spot just right so she comes fast and hard, because he never lasts long like this - watching himself fuck her like this.

 

She sucks her tongue, tugging insistently at his lapel as he starts to rock his hips back and forth.

 

“Tell me, baby.”

 

She likes when he talks dirty to her, tells her how good her cunt feels when he’s inside her, how sexy she looks when he’s fucking her, how much he thinks about fucking her. She likes when he tells her about his fantasies, about how he imagines fucking her on her desk at work, on the conference table in the briefing room, bent over the boot of his Audi in the parking lot.

 

She likes to bite him, too - on his shoulder, on his arm, on his pecs. She nips him through the fabric of his shirt when he fucks her like this, on the bathroom counter. And she likes to scratch him, to drag her nails down his back and over his abs. He loves it, the bittersweet sting of her teeth and nails on his skin. Loves when she’s egging him on, telling him faster, harder, slower, _gentle gentle_.

 

“So fuckin’ sexy, you know that?” he rasps, watching her body jiggle and jerk as he fucks her. “You like that, sweet’eart?”

 

She nods, fingers slipping under his shirt collar to dig her nails into his shoulder as she gasps, “ _Harder_. Give it to me harder, Rick... Faster... Oh God, yes - yes like that!”

 

He’s driving her right over the edge; he can feel it in the way her thighs shake and her breath puffs against his face as she pants.

 

He’s completely fucking mesmerized as her eyes squeeze shut and her head drops back in his waiting hand. He tightens his grip about her waist as her cunt clenches around him and she keens.

 

He loves this: loves how she goes completely slack when she comes for him, loves the weight of her head cradled in his hand, loves how she’s a babbling mess in his arms, stroking his chest and his face and telling him:

 

“So good, baby boy. Come on, come for me, baby.”

 

He can count the strokes until his toes curl and crack and a shudder snaps like lightning down his spine as his hips stutter and he comes.

 

“Do... fuckin’ anythin’... for you… anythin’... for you...darlin’...”

 

______________________________________________________________________________

 

Ford can’t believe his luck as he saunters into the breakroom for a cup of coffee. The man fixing himself a to-go mug has his back to him, a stack of files tucked under his arm and cursing lightly under his breath as he tries to screw on his lid one-handed.

 

“Bugger me, if it isn’t Nicki Six!”

 

Nick Davidson startles, whipping around.

 

“Texas Ranger!” Nick throws his arms out wide in a _what’s-up_ , breaking into an boyish grin. “Long time no see, brother. How the fuck you been?”

 

Nick’s hair is in bad need of a trim, and he hasn’t bothered to tuck his Grateful Dead t-shirt into his faded Levi's. The laces on one of his high-tops has come undone, dragging behind him as he sidles up to Ford, gangly arms and legs surprising coordinated for such a gawky-looking bloke.

 

 _Fuckin’ mess, this one_ , Ford thinks fondly.

 

“Never been better, mate. What the fuck you been up to?”

 

He slaps his hand into Nick’s in a loose low-five-handshake; Nick pulls him in for a shoulder-bump.

 

“You know how it is, man: same old same old.” Nick shrugs, choking up his grip on the files under his arm. “New busload of freshlies comin’ in today, so I can’t complain. You?”

 

Ford nods, stretching his arms up over his head until his collar bones pop and yawning so wide his eyes water. “S’good. Just back from ‘oliday - tryin’ to get into the swing of things. You know 'ow it is.”

 

Nick makes a point of giving Ford a once-over.

 

“You know, Tex, if it wasn’t for the ridiculously expensive suit and the Bond accent, I’d say you weren't Rick Ford.” He smirks knowingly. “You doin’ something different with your hair, man?”

 

Ford thumps his shoulder good-naturedly. “S'real funny. You should be a bloody comedian.”

 

“Seriously, dude.” Nick's eyes twinkle in amusement. He lowers his voice. “You been hittin’ the bud?”

 

He pinches his fingers together at his lips and makes a loud sipping sound, waggling his eyebrows.

 

Ford barks a laugh. “Been 'ittin’ somethin’, mate. But it ain’t that.”

 

“Say what! Rick Ford’s gotta honey? Mah man!” Nick raises his fist.

 

Ford grins like a fool as he bumps it with his, thinking about Cooper.

 

Nick beams back, genuinely pleased. “Bout fucking time, brother! She a dime?”

 

Ford’s chest swells. “Bet your arse. She’s fuckin’ gorgeous, mate.”

 

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about! How’d you meet her?”

 

“Met ‘er right ‘ere, didn’t I?” Ford folds his arms, smirking.

 

“Whoa, a local - oh wait, you mean _here_ -here, like, _Langley_ -here?” Nick’s eyes are wide as tea saucers. “Dude,” he lowers his voice, glancing around the breakroom like she might be tucked into one of the corners. “Who is it?”

 

Ford leans in, grinning like he’s got the inside tip on the winning picks at the track. “Susan. Cooper.”

 

Nick’s jaw drops open, mouth working like a goldfish’s before he can choke out, “Susan Cooper? Like Susan-five-foot-nothing-from-Wisconsin-used-to-teach-high-school-science-Cooper?”

 

Ford can’t keep the smugness out of his voice as he sniffs, thumbs his nose. “S’right.”

 

“Wow, man.” Nick shakes his head, grinning more to himself than at Ford. “Super Cooper. Did _not_ see that one coming.”

 

“Wonder ‘ow I managed it meself, sometimes.”

 

Nick gives him a soppy look.

 

Ford holds out a hand. “Alright, alright - don’t get all girlie on me, Nicki.”

 

“Susan’s cool people.” Nick chuckles. “And she’ll give you one hell of a run for your money.”

 

Ford snorts, nodding.

 

_Wait, ‘ow the ‘ell would he know that?_

 

“And speaking of pretty mamacitas with a mean uppercut…”

 

 _Barkin’ up the wrong tree_...

 

Ford sighs, scrubbing a hand over his head with a sheepish glance at Nick. “Yah, ‘bout that - she’s seein’ some bloke from ATF. Developer or somethin’.”

 

_Sorry, mate._

 

Nick nods, avoiding his eyes as he tries to play it off. “Hey, whatever, man. S’cool.”

 

_Poor chap._

 

Nick clears his throat, recovering with a lopsided smile. “Well, I gotta get these new recruits to the Farm, start putting them through the paces and what-not.”

 

Ford claps his shoulder a few times.

 

“Sure, sure.”

 

“Listen, man - you get some time and got nothing better to do, grab your long range and come on down. Show these newbies how it’s really done.”

 

Ford grins. “I’ll let you know, mate.”

 

“Bring your honey with you,” Nick calls as he heads out the door. “Tell her I’ll be wearing my cup this time.”

 

“What - “

 

Nick’s already around the corner.

 

_What’d ‘e mean, ‘e’ll be wearin’ a cup?_

 

 _And she’ll give you one hell of a run for your money,_ he’d said.

 

Ford stretches again, feeling the pleasant sting of her nailbites on his shoulder.

 

_Got that right, mate._

 

He thinks about her as he pours himself a cup of coffee, picturing her sitting at the breakfast bar, juice glass cupped in both hands and tits pressed together above the neckline of her blouse, giving him that daffy smile she always has when he's shagged her proper.

 

He smirks to himself.

 

_Now what was it she’d said about lunch -?_

 

He hears footsteps on the breakroom floor behind him; by the hollow _clack_ the heels make on the linoleum and the way the right step is a hair heavier than the left, he wagers it’s Fine.

 

And sure enough, he recognizes Fine’s characteristic sneer as he replaces the coffee pot on it’s hot plate with a sharp _click_. “Back from vacation, Ford?”

 

Ford turns, propping his hip against the counter. “Beverly - you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

 

“That was a lot of PTO, wasn’t it - four weeks? Thought you might have moved on.” Fine says _moved on_ like it’s a suggestion rather than an assumption, not bothering to veil the hostility in his voice.

 

Ford sets down his mug, braces the heels of his hands on the lip of the counter. “Miss me, sweet’eart?”

 

Fine snorts, polishing the toe of his Allen Edmond against his pant leg as he pours himself a cup of coffee.

 

_Got a bug up your arse, Fancy?_

 

“Not that it’s any business of yours, but I ‘ad some time on the books and a good reason to take it.”

 

He doesn’t miss how the muscle in Fine’s jaw twitches at that.

 

“Whatta they call it: _work-life-balance_? Shit we see on the job, a bloke needs time to clear ‘is ‘ead now and then. Don’t you agree?”

 

“Certainly. I’m just amazed you needed more than ten minutes to do it.”

 

_Wanker._

 

“ ‘ave a nice ‘oliday?” Ford asks with mock-amicability, fingers gripping the edge of the counter.

 

Fine tries to look bored as he reaches for the dry creamer. “Nice enough. Went skiing in Courchevel; the powder was excellent. We rang in the New Year in London.”

 

Fine’s nose wrinkles in distaste.

 

“I have to say, though - London was a bit of a let-down. The fireworks over Thames were passable, I guess. Not half as impressive as the ones in Paris, though.”

 

“Don’t you just 'ate that?” Ford _tsk_ s, face pinched in sympathy. “Makes a bloke want to slit ‘is wrists. Ah well - _time ‘eals all wounds_ , me mum used to say.”

 

Fine squints at him over the rim of his mug. “And how was your vacation, Ford?”

 

Ford rolls his shoulders, cracking his neck before he replies casually, “Oh, we laid about mostly. Took a few drives up and down Washington Memorial, watched a couple’a films. Rang in the New Year with a bit of a bang, ourselves.”

 

He pauses, scratching his chin and grinning as he considers. “A _lot_ of a bang, actually -”

 

“I assume by _we_ ,” Fine interrupts with a huff, “you mean yourself and Susan Cooper.”

 

Ford folds his arms over his chest, flexing. “S’right.”

 

_What you gonna do about it, boy?_

 

Fine clucks his tongue as he stirs his coffee. “I was afraid that’s what you meant.”

 

Something in his condescending sigh makes Ford’s jaw clench.

 

“Oh?” he asks lowly, trying to keep his growl in check. “Why’s that?”

 

Fine sighs again, a long-suffering _Can-you-really-be-so-simple?_ and says, “The agency has very clear policies regarding interoffice fraternization -”

 

Ford snorts. “Never stopped you comin’ on to me before -”

 

“A relationship of this nature is strongly discouraged, as I’m sure even you are aware -”

 

_Wait a minute..._

 

“- and I would hate for an indiscretion to call into question Cooper’s professionalism so early in her career -”

 

Ford’s gut twists; he makes a grab for Fine’s lapel with a snarl. “ _Don’t_ you fuckin’ threaten her -”

 

Fine intercepts him with a sharp backhanded block.

 

“Keep your filthy hands off me,” Fine spits back, straightening the cuff of his jacket and taking an almost imperceptible step out of Ford’s reach.

 

_Almost._

 

Ford sneers.

 

“It is not my intention in the least to jeapordize Cooper’s career; I do not hold her lack of judgement where you’re concerned against her. After all, she has no idea what you’re like -”

 

“What _I’m_ like -”

 

_This little shit…_

 

“But there are people in this organization who will notice, and draw their own conclusions - uncharitable to her _naivete_ as they may be - and I am asking you to consider -”

 

Ford’s lips curl around a retort.

 

“ _I am asking you_ ,” Fine repeats louder, cutting Ford off, “to consider someone other than yourself in this case, Ford.” He lowers his voice, emboldened by Ford’s pause, and takes a half-step forward.

 

_S’right, you little twat. Just come a little closer..._

 

“Would you really ruin her reputation and her career,” Fine asks in a low voice, eyes glinting coldly in the florescent light. Another step forward. “To add another notch to your belt? Are you so _selfish_ -”

 

Ford feints a second reach for Fine’s collar. This time, when Fine reacts with a block, Ford’s other hand shoots out and grabs his wrist. He twists, rolling Fine’s elbow in and up; Fine’s rotator cuff pops warningly.

 

Fine’s free hand closes around Ford’s forearm, but he’s never been a physical match for Ford, and Ford only wrenches his wrist harder, smirking as Fine tries to hide a flinch.

 

“She doesn’t know what _I’m_ like? Fuckin’ hilarious. Bet you ‘aven’t told her about Bangkok, ‘ave you? Least not the truth, anyway.”

 

Fine slams his elbow into the crook of Ford’s.

 

Ford grits his teeth and ignores the pain shooting up his arm as he wrings Fine’s harder. They both hear the second _pop_ in Fine’s shoulder.

 

“You listen to me, you little shit,” Ford growls. “You got a problem with me? Great. We can settle the score any day you like, Fancy. I’ll even let you get the first lick in.”

 

The soles of Fine’s wingtips squeak against the linoleum as he jostles to throw off Ford’s footing.

 

_Nice try, Fancy._

 

Ford bares his teeth.

 

“But I’m warnin’ you: you breathe one fuckin’ word to anyone that could ‘urt her job - you so much as look at 'er sideways - and I’ll fucking bury you.”

 

He shakes Fine viciously.

 

“And I don’t mean figuratively, boy.”

 

Fine wheezes a laugh through gritted teeth. “You will regret this, Ford -”

 

Ford chuckles darkly. “Don’t think so.”

 

He wonders distantly how many weeks probation he’ll get if he dislocates Fine’s shoulder. Two, maybe three? Are there cameras in this breakroom?

 

“Jesus, guys - what is this?”

 

Ford feels Fine go slack with relief.

 

Cress is hulking just inside the breakroom door.

 

Ford’s knuckles whiten as he tightens his grip, giving Cress a congenial smile. “Cress. S’been awhile, mate. ‘ave a nice Chirstmas?”

 

“Cut him loose, Ford.” Cress’s voice is calm and even as he presses a little farther into the room. “C’mon, man. Whatever it is, it’s not that deep.”

 

An image of Cooper’s face, shocked and upset at the sight of a mangled Bradley Fine, flashes through Ford’s mind.

 

Ford releases Fine with a disgusted sound. “S’your lucky day, Fancy. Someone’s ‘ere to save your arse - again.”

 

Fine stumbles backwards, catching himself with a hand on the counter. He straightens, tugging at the creases in his lapels and smoothing a hand through his hair, nostrils flaring as he composes himself.

 

“You alright?” Cress eyes Fine’s shoulder, then looks between the two of them for an explanation. “What the hell, guys?”

 

“It’s nothing; just a friendly disagreement.” Fine rolls his arm in its socket, waves his hand dismissively. “You know what a struggle it is for Ford to use his words.”

 

With a glower at Ford, Fine shoulders past Cress, heels making a sharp _clack clack_ as he stalks out of the breakroom.

 

_Fuckin' wanker._

 

Cress plants a hand on his hip, combs his fingers through his hair before gesturing at the door Fine just flounced out through. “Disagreement about _what_ , Ford? Dude, you’ve been back - what - ten minutes? Fifteen, tops?”

 

Ford pushes off from the counter, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder at the doughnut box on top of the microwave.

 

“Son of a bitch ate the last cream-filled, that’s what.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi my loves! Long time, no update. Miss me?
> 
> I missed you *waggles eyebrows*
> 
> For those of you who are like, "Who the fuck is Nick Davidson?"... Remember that instructor Cooper tosses into the wall at the end of her drill? The one shouting, "Cooper - Cooper - stop!"?
> 
> *That* is Nick Davidson. He cracked me up, so I gave him a name and a personality and voila!
> 
> Also, there'd been a few requests for a Fine - Ford showdown. While this is by no means the end of their little property dispute, I hope it pleases!
> 
> Comments are so very much appreciated; I love chatting with you!


	17. Would You Be Mine? Could You Be Mine? Won't You Be... My Neighbor? Part II

It’s half-past noon when his meetings are finally over.

He makes a break for the lift.

He spies Cress trotting down the hall towards him as he swipes his access card and punches _0_  for the basement.

_‘nother round of interrogation attempts? Don’t think so._

He mashes the _Close Door_ button before Cress can catch up to him.

“Jesus Ford, hold the damn elevator -”

The lift doors shut.

_Thank the bloody stars._

He lets out a _whoosh_ of air as the car starts its descent with a lurch.

Propping a shoulder against the wall, he thumbs absently through the case folder with his assignment specs, tucking his passport and boarding pass into his inside breast pocket for safe-keeping.

It’s a kill mission in the Czech Republic; an international arms dealer has been selling light artillery and ammunition to anti-Al Qaeda rebel forces in Pakistan for years. The agency had turned a blind eye - _enemy of my enemy is my friend, and all_ \- until the dealer’s product was discovered in a military raid of a terrorist cell on the border of Iran.

_Bo’emia in the winter. Lovely._

He scrubs a hand over his face.

As the lift opens, an image of Cooper, skittering out of his reach in her sexy white sweaterdress and powder blue mittens, flashes in his mind.

_“Run all you like, sweet -”_

__

_A snowball clocks him smack in the mouth. He shakes his head, spitting out chunks of ice._

__

_Aim’s not too shabby._

__

_Cooper shriek-laughs, snow crunching loudly under the soles of her fur booties as she scampers away from him._

__

_“Just you wait till I catch you,” he growls, fighting back a grin as he stalks her through a crop of trees. In some distant corner of the park, children are laughing as they play. A dog barks._

__

_“Ha! We’ll see about that!” she sasses, stooping to scoop up another handful of snow._

__

_She looks so pretty, flurries clinging to her hair and a flush dusting her nose and cheeks. The soft pant in her voice has him imagining ways of warming her up..._

He spots her typing away at her desk.

_Probably writin’ some complicated computer program to 'elp Fancy find his arse'ole in the dark._

He massages the crook of his arm, wincing.

_Suppose that’s one advantage to bein' a scrawny little twat: bony elbows._

Still, he can’t stop the twinge of pride he feels watching her roll from monitor to monitor, clicking her mouses and tip-tapping on her keyboards, cute little crease between her eyebrows as she concentrates.

He doesn’t give a rat’s arse what Bradley wanker Fine says; Susan’s a fine handler, and a damn good analyst, and people know it.

And if they don’t, he’ll make bloody well sure they get the memo.

She looks up from her screens - _can always feel when I’m watchin’, can’t she?_ \- and does a double-take when she catches him in an unlit corner near the lift, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets, watching her work.

She beams at him - a wide, warm smile and… _fuck_.

There’s that fucking _flutter_ in his gut again, and a tingling in his fingers that he’s almost positive has nothing to do with how close it is to lunchtime.

The way she’s looking at him...

He weaves his way between the cubicles to her desk.

“Fancy meetin’ you ‘ere, darlin’,” he rumbles, remembering the look on her face the first time he’d kissed her hand as he props a hip on her filing drawer.

She glances about, checking to see who’s watching, before she looks up at him through her lashes.

“Agent Ford,” she greets him shyly.

His cock twitches.

“Miss Coopah,” he purrs, giving her a cocky grin.

_Like where this is goin’._

She balances her pencil between the tips of her index fingers. Her breasts press together over the top of her blouse.

“Is there… something I can help you with, sir?”

_Jesus fuckin’ Christ almighty -_

He clears his throat, trying to surreptitiously adjust his hard on as he shifts, bracing his hands on the lip of her desk.

She smirks.

_Saucy little minx._

He tries to sound nonchalant. “Was wonderin’, actually, if you 'ad a boyfriend.”

Her hand flies to her chest as she bats her lashes. “Me?”

“S’right.”

He makes a point of leering at her tits before his eyes cut up to hers.

“See - I’ve been walkin’ by this desk for months now, thinkin’ to myself, _Come on, mate. Just gotta man up and ask ‘er out_. And when you looked up at me, battin’ your lashes an’ all - well, I said to myself, _Sod it, mate: now or never_.”

Her expression goes soft, eyes shining up at him as she says quietly, “For months, huh?”

_God, this fuckin’ flutter…_

“First time ever I saw your face, my darlin’.”

“Really?” she whispers.

 

The bustle of the office fades, like someone's turned the volume down on the tele. He thinks he can hear her heart beating. Or is that his?

“Never been more sure of anythin’ in my life, Miss Coopah,” he murmurs.

_Lost, mate. Fuckin’ lost out in the ocean without so much as a paddle._

Her lashes flutter, not in a put-on way, but the way they flutter when he’s taken her breath away.

_God._ “Susan, I -”

“Well,” she interrupts with a start, suddenly seeming to remember where she is. Where they are.

She glances about, not quite meeting his eyes as she says in a lighter tone, “I’m so sorry to disappoint you, Agent Ford. But I _do_ have a boyfriend.”

“Oh?” He tries to sound playful, tamping down the… what? Disappointment? Ache?

“Yes. And I have to warn you: he’s very jealous.” She gives him a meaningful look. “And strong.”

“Strong, is ‘e?” Some of the swagger’s back in his voice now. “Got big arms, does ‘e?”

“ _Enormous_ ,” she gushes, squeezing her own upper arm for emphasis.

“Is it?” He crosses his arms over his chest, flexing. “Sounds like a real nasty bastard. Is ‘e ‘andsome?”

“ _So_ handsome,” she giggles, rolling her eyes at him.

He chuckles. “Dunno, still might ‘ave to fight ‘im for yah. Can’t bear the idea of you sittin’ ‘ere, eatin’ lunch all by yourself.”

Her smile falters. She blinks.

Swiveling back to her monitors with an unreadable expression, she raises her hand and gives him a dismissive  _shoo-shoo_.

“You don’t have to worry about that, Agent Ford.”

“No?” He grins. “Your _boyfriend_ comin’ to take you to lunch, then?”

“Him? Nah. He knows I have a lunch date with Nancy today.”

She gives him a cute little smile over her shoulder that’s all sharp teeth.

“I told him this morning. At breakfast.”

Something cold slips through his stomach.

_Shit - fuck - bollocks…_

She pops her pencil into her pencil holder and reaches under her desk for her purse.

“I -”

“My _boyfriend_ wouldn’t be down here asking me out to lunch when I’ve already told him _twice_ I have plans with Nancy. He’s such a great listener!” she chirps loudly as she stands, bending over her keyboard to lock her screens.

He tears his eyes off her ass. “Susan -”

“Save it.”

Her tits press distractingly against his chest as she reaches around him for her coat. He can smell her perfume as she snatches it off the hook -

_No, mate - focus -_

He almost misses the mocking gleam in her eyes as she rises onto her tiptoes, balancing with a hand on his arm, and whispers huskily in his ear, “But thank you for the offer, _Agent Ford_.”

_Fuck me._

And with that, she brushes past him and sashays to the lift, heart-shaped ass jiggling with every step.

He gapes at her as she links arms with Nancy, who’s holding the doors for her with a slightly sheepish expression. Nancy offers him an apologetic little wave.

The lift _dings_ merrily, and Cooper blows him a kiss just before the doors slide shut.

_What the fuck just ‘appened?_

Behind him, Sharon cackles gleefully.

“Oh I _like_ her, Mav.”

He shakes his head, blinking.

“You see that?”

“Come on, tiger.” She thumps him on the back as she shoulders past him. “The Queen Vic. You’re buying.”

He rubs his chin as he strides to catch up with her.

“Am I in trouble, you wager?”

Sharon snorts as they step into the lift, dragging her hair out from under her coat collar.

“ _Can’t bear the idea of you sittin’ ‘ere eatin’ lunch by yourself, Miss Coopah_ ,” she mocks in that ridiculous fucking accent.

“Grow up,” he grouses, jabbing _P1_ for the garage. “And I _don’t_ sound like that.”

“Yes,” she nods as the lift door close behind them, “You do.”

He grumbles something about _takin’-the-mickey-out-of-a-poor-bloke-when-he’s-down_ as he feels in his pockets for his car keys.

_Wait - always put them in my front right pocket -_

“You've _got_ to be fuckin' kiddin' me,” he growls, patting his breast pockets in disbelief.

 

"What?"

 

“She nicked my fuckin' car keys, s'what…”

Sharon's holding her stomach, she's laughing so hard.

He chuckles.

_Foxy little minx._

**  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No idea how many parts this "chapter" will be. Hope you like the fluff!


	18. Would You Be Mine? Could You Be Mine? Won't You Be... My Neighbor? Part III

He takes a sip of his Kingfisher as he glances out the diner window. The sky is overcast, dark gray clouds hanging low on the horizon.

 

Days like these always remind him of Derbyshire, of sleepy afternoons watching the snow fall out of his mother’s shop window. Driving his toy cars back and forth along the window ledge as the soft hum of her sewing machine drifts from the back room and envelopes him.

 

Would she have liked Cooper?

 

He pictures his mother tucked in next to Cooper on the little sofa in the shop’s office - the one he used to curl up on when she worked late into the night. Cooper making his mother laugh with her quirky jokes and paper animals, holding his mother’s hand as she tells her stories about life back in Wisconsin, her students, her work. His mother smiling and saying -

 

“Ford! _Are you ready to order_?”

 

He blinks. Sharon is looking at him like _come-the-fuck-on_. Their waitress - a little blonde thing not a day over twenty - is smiling shyly at him, pen poised over her order pad.

 

He gives the waitress an apologetic smile. “Sorry, luv.”

 

She blushes, ducking her head.

 

Sharon makes a disgusted sound, rolling her eyes.

 

He nods at her. “You order already?”

 

“ _Yes_ , like forever ago,” Sharon huffs. “You know what?”

 

She turns to the waitress. “He’ll have the bangers and mash. He always does.”

 

The waitress doesn’t make the slightest indication she’s heard Sharon; instead, she trying a coy smile and a high-pitched giggle with Ford.

 

Sharon stretches her arms across the table, into Ford’s personal space and the waitress field of vision, and claps her hands. “Yoo-hoo! Anybody home?”

 

The waitress starts with a jolt. Ford gives her a pitying look.

 

“Y-yes, ma’am -”

 

“He’ll have the bangers and mash,” Sharon enunciates each word loudly, giving the waitress a hard stare.

 

“Of course, ma’am! Fish and chips and an order of bangers and mash, coming right up!”

 

She scampers into the kitchen with their orders, but not before stealing a glance at Ford over her shoulder.

 

Sharon doesn’t miss it, expression souring.

 

“Jesus Christ.” She cards her fingers through her hair, gathering it up into a messy topknot as she mutters, “Is anyone on the same planet today?”

 

“Someone’s got their knickers in a twi - Ow!”

 

A sharp pain shoots through his leg.

 

“Oi - steady on,” he hisses, reaching under the table to rub his shin as Sharon smirks around the mouth of her Sir Perry. “Only meant it seems like it’s been awhile since you’ve - Dammit Sharon, I mean it!”

 

He rubs his other shin, grateful the booth’s too high for her to get a good shot at his groin.

 

He jabs his finger at her. “You do that again -”

 

“And you’ll what?” she goads, tucking her elbows in at her sides and lacing her fingers together over her stomach.

 

_Brat._

 

She crosses her legs, foot jiggling impatiently. “Got your attention?”

 

“Undivided,” he grumbles, eying the pointy toe of her high heel. “What you want then?”

 

She huffs again. “What is up with you, Mav? You’re off. I mean, you’re always a _little_ off, but this…”

 

“S’real nice, Goosey - you drag me ‘ere in your piece-of-shit-Chevy, make me pick up the check, kick me in the shins... And now you’re insultin’ me? S'lovely. What’s next - you gonna mug me in the parkin’ garage when we get back?”

 

She snickers. “I think your pockets are pretty picked over...”

 

“Ha-bloody-ha. You’re fuckin’ hilarious.”

 

“Don’t be such a baby.” She tips the top of her beer bottle at him. “And stop deflecting. It’s not cute.”

 

_Shoulda known this was a fuckin’ set-up._

 

He rubs his chin, picks at his straw wrapper.

 

_Christ._

 

“It’s Susan -”

 

Sharon leans in, nodding and making a _go-on_ motion.

 

He crosses his arms on the table, hunching his shoulders.

 

“Thing of it is...”

 

God, why is this so fucking hard to say?

 

“I dunno, Sharon… I think I… Oh bugger - I’m fallin’ in love with ‘er.”

 

He throws his hands up like _now-what-the-fuck-do-I-do_ as he sits back in his chair with a _thud_.

 

_Least it’s out in the open now. That's a relief._

 

Sharon cocks an eyebrow at him. “Wait - is _that_ the big reveal?”

 

_Is she fuckin’ kiddin’ me?_

 

“Yes, it’s the big fuckin’ reveal,” he growls. “What - you want me to hire a fuckin’ airplane to write it in the sky? Would that make it climatic enough for you?”

 

_Unbelievable._

 

“Well _excuse me_ for figuring out that stupid _I’m-in-love-with-Susan-Cooper_ look all over your face. Real puzzler, wasn’t it? Thank God for that trail of breadcrumbs, or I might have had to put the pieces together with the - oh - ten _thousand_ times you’ve mentioned her in the last week.”

 

He tugs the lapels of his suit jacket. “I don’t have a _look_ …”

 

“Puh-lease. I know that _Rick-Ford’s-in-love_ face when I see it.”

 

He makes a chopping motion with his hand. “No, Sharon -this is different.”

 

She takes a sip of her cider, nodding, _Sure it is_.

 

“S’not just about bangin’ - I mean, _‘course_ we’re bangin’ -”

 

Sharon rolls her eyes.

 

“S’not just puppy-love, either. It’s the real deal -” He jabs his finger into the table for emphasis. “Every time I look at ‘er, I mean _really_ look at ‘er, I get sick to my stomach -”

 

Sharon snorts.

 

“Oh grow up, Goose. You know what the fuck I mean.”

 

She smirks. “Sure it’s not just IBS? Or bad tuna?”

 

He makes another chopping motion, tacking on a definitive nod. “Positive. Thought it might be that at first - what with dairy being a bit of a problem and all - but I’ve definitely ruled that out now. It’s love - got to be.”

 

She blinks. “I was joking about the… For Christ’s sake.” She covers her face with her hand, making a frustrated noise in her throat.

 

“Ah-hem.”

 

Their waitress is waiting, tray balanced on her hip and smiling brightly at Ford.

 

“Order’s up!” she titters, blushing again.

 

“Jesus, just kill me,” Sharon mutters.

 

“Thanks, luv,” he mumbles absently at the waitress as she sets their food down.

 

“You are  _so_ welcome, sir. Is there anything else I can -”

 

_Don’t ‘ave time for this shit..._

 

He holds out a hand. “We’re great, thanks.”

 

Sharon snickers as the waitress slinks back to the kitchen, looking miffed.

 

“Breaking hearts left-and-right.”

 

He groans, tipping his head back and covering his eyes with his hand. “That’s the thing of it; I don’t _want_ to break Susan’s ‘eart!”

 

Sharon doesn’t look up from her basket as she liberally sprinkles vinegar on her fish and chips. “So then don’t.”

 

The smell instantly reminds him of the Holly Bush in Derbyshire, where his father used to take him when he’d remember he had a son. And of The Mayflower on Rotherhithe, right round the corner from his mother’s shop, where he and his mother used to slip away for a few glorious hours in the summers, just the two of them.

 

His mother’s face, young and pretty, crackles in his mind.

 

His chest aches.

 

“Sharon, please - you’ve got to help me. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doin’, do I? S’been ages since -”

 

_Sandra._

 

“Sandra?”

 

He tries to hide his flinch. “Yah.”

 

He eyes unfocus, fixing somewhere over Sharon’s shoulder at the pub’s brick wall.

 

Sandra, smiling. Sandra, thick thighs hiked up over his and hands slip-sliding over his chest. Sandra, standing up in his Mustang convertible, blonde hair streaming out behind her and whooping _Pedal to the metal, Rick!_ Sandra, skull bashed in and chest crumpled and red.

 

What the fuck is he doing? Who the fuck is he kidding?

 

“I’m fucked.” He shrugs helplessly at Sharon. “Completely fucked.”

 

Sharon nods, flicking salt and vinegar off her fingers into her basket of chips. “Yeah, you are.”

 

He snorts.

 

_Some ‘elp she’s been._

 

She wipes her hands with her napkin, folds her arms on the table.

 

“You remember the day Dan was born?”

 

He wasn’t expecting that.

 

“Danny-boy?”

 

He pictures Daniel, wrinkly and lobster-red and screaming his lungs out.

 

He chuckles.

 

“ 'Course I remember. Don’t forget a set of pipes like that.”

 

Or how soft he’d felt in Ford’s arms, all bundled up his little blue blanket.

 

He smiles.

 

“I was dreading it.” She winces at the memory. “Not the labor, or the pain - him. I was twenty-two, and I had a million things I wanted to do with my life. Being a mom wasn’t one of ‘em.”

 

She takes a sip of her cider, wry smile on her face as she continues. “But Travis? He could talk you into anything.”

 

Ford snorts. “Ain’t that the truth.”

 

She picks at the paper liner in her chip basket, voice quiet as she says, “When I told him I was knocked up, he was thrilled beyond belief. Picked me up and spun me around until I thought I was going to puke.”

 

He grins.

 

_Sounds like Travis._

 

“We danced in that hanger all night. He called everybody he’d ever met the next day -”

 

“I remember,” he says softly.

 

_Ford, you’re never gonna believe what that crazy girl of mine told me - I’m gonna be a dad! Can you believe it, man! Me, a father. Ain’t she the best girl in the whole damn world?_

“When he- when he was killed, I didn’t think I could go through with it, you know?” She winces again, looking down at her forearms.

 

He reaches across the table, gives her arm a little rub.

 

_No judgement ‘ere, luv. Not from me. Never from me._

 

“I know, Goosey.”

 

“But he - Dan - was all I had left of Travis. And I couldn’t- I just couldn’t. Didn’t matter that I wasn’t ready, that I was scared shitless...”

 

She takes a deep breath. “I’m saying all of this to say - life’s too fucking short, Mav. I’m not a perfect mom -”

 

He starts to interrupt her with a finger-jab, but she holds up her hand.

 

“I’m not. Sometimes, I’m not even a good one. But I show up, and I try. All day, every day. Even when it sucks. Even when he’s being a little shit. God, especially when he’s being a little shit.”

 

Ford laughs. Sharon’s never pretended with him, never pulled a punch.

 

_Just like Travis._

 

She smiles, one of those rare real smiles. “Does he remind me of Travis sometimes? Yeah. Does it hurt? Like hell. But honey -  love hurts. It’s wonderful, it’s great, and it fucking _hurts_ sometimes.” She thumps her hand over her heart. “That’s what makes it real-life.”

 

_Real-life._

 

Could he have a real life with Cooper? Would she want one with him?

 

_Only one way to find out, mate._

 

“I’m gonna tell ‘er. Tonight. I’m gonna go over there and tell ‘er I love ‘er.”

 

Sharon raises her Sir Perry, eyes crinkling in a smile.

 

He clinks it with his Kingfisher, feeling some of the tension melting out of his shoulders.

 

“I’ll drink to that.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get a little more of Sharon's backstory, and a peek into how she knows Ford.
> 
> Speaking of Ford... Poor guy. All tied up in knots over Cooper.
> 
> But does she feel the same way?
> 
> Never met a comment I didn't like ;D


	19. Would You Be Mine? Could You Be Mine? Won't You Be... My Neighbor? Part IV

“Seen Patrick yet?” Sharon asks as she types.

 

He doesn’t open his eyes as he replies lazily, “Nah. See ‘im in the mornin’, ‘fore I take off.”

 

He’s lounging in the spare office chair she usually throws her handbag on, his feet propped up on her filing drawer.

 

Hands tucked behind his head, he tries to catch a few minutes of shut-eye while Sharon processes his assignment specs.

 

Images of Cooper fade in and out. Her giving him sass through the shower door about something.  Face bathed in candlelight and smiling at him in a restaurant. Standing on the train together, her arm around his waist and looking up at him through her lashes…

 

He’s just started to nod off when something hits his chest with a _plunk_.

 

“Wassat?” He blinks, groping around until -

 

_Car keys…_

 

The lift _dings_ cheerily somewhere behind him.

 

“Susan?”

 

He yawns, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands as he sits up.

 

“ ‘ow long was I out? Sharon?”

 

Sharon’s nowhere to be found, screens locked and travel mug missing from the coaster on her desk.

 

He checks his watch.

 

_Five-fifteen. Shit._

 

She’s long gone to pick Daniel up from the bus stop. He looks around; the basement’s mostly empty, except for a few analysts typing quietly at their cubicles.

 

Susan’s desk is deserted, her task lamp stitched off.

 

Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he checks for texts.

 

Sure enough, there’s on from Susan at five-o’-five.

 

_Hey sleepy-head. See you at my place at 6? :)_

 

He grins, replying: _Yes. C u thn._

 

Shit, doesn’t give him time to go home and change. He can still stop and pick up flowers, if he hurries.

 

_She likes peonies, doesn’t she?_

 

He feels his phone vibrate in his pocket as he stands.

 

_Cool! Btw, you might need gas :P_

 

He chuckles, typing as he saunters to the lift: _U might b getting a spanking_

 

He watches his screen for her reply.

 

_Let’s see ;)_

 

He stretches luxuriously as the lift opens.

 

_S’gonna be a lovely evenin’._

 

_____________________________________________________________________________

 

 _Barracuda_ blares when he starts the car; she must’ve taken his CDs out of the player during her and Nancy’s joy ride.

 

Sure enough, he finds Heart’s _Little Queen_ and _The Very Best of Madonna_ in the disk changer. She’s tossed Hendrix and the Stones into the glove compartment.

 

He snorts. No matter, he doesn’t much feel like music anyway.

 

It’s pitch dark when he pulls into her complex. The air is cold and damp as he steps out of the car, shaking his shoulders out and tucking the paper-wrapped bouquet under his arm.

 

_Let’s do this._

 

His breath streams out in long puffs as he trots up the stairs to her flat. He can’t help but think about the first time he picked her up - how beautiful she looked in that dress. And all the times after that: taking her out for breakfast before work, bringing up takeout and a film, dropping by unannounced just because he’d fancied a snog.

 

He tries to push down the sick feeling rising in his stomach as he stops at her door.

 

Why is he so fucking nervous?

 

He closes his eyes, tilts his head back, takes a deep breath. The cold air stings his sinuses, burns his lungs.

 

It’s quiet. He hears the faint buzz of her neighbor’s flood lamp. Down the street, a dog barks.

 

_You can do this, mate. Easy as pie._

 

He exhales, feeling his shoulder blades drop down his back, and raps on the door.

 

_Susan, I love you._

 

_I love you, Susan._

 

_Susan, got somethin’ to tell yah - I fuckin’ love you._

 

_Yah, s’right, I’m in love with you._

 

_I -_

 

He hears the lock turn in the strike, the grind of the door against the door jamb as she opens it.

 

He holds out the bouquet.

 

“Susan, I -”

 

“Hola?”

 

_Wait, what -_

 

A tiny middle-aged Hispanic woman has poked her head out of the door.

 

They blink at each other.

 

“Is - is Susan in there?” he asks, brow wrinkling as he tries to look over her shoulder.

 

_When did she get a ‘ousekeeper?_

 

The little Hispanic woman looks him up and down, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Como?”

 

“I’m looking for Susan. Sue-zan,” he repeats louder, getting a bit annoyed. “Is Sue-zan ‘ome?”

 

The woman waves her hand _no-no_ , shaking her head. “No, Señor. No e’Susan here.”

 

She starts to shut the door in his face.

 

_What in the fuckin’ hell -_

 

Something’s not right.

 

“Wait, Señora -” He catches the door with the palm of his hand, straining to keep it cracked open.

 

_Stronger than she looks._

 

“Rick?”

 

“Susan? S’that you?”

 

Her voice sounds small and muffled.

 

“Yes, it’s me!”

 

“Where are you? Are you in there?” he calls into the flat, pushing more insistently.

 

Something cold slips through his stomach when she doesn’t answer.

 

Is she trapped in there? Is this some sort of rouse - a burglary routine, maybe? A man subdues the victim while his female accomplice keeps a look out, pretending to be a housemaid?

 

He drops the bouquet, pounding on the door with his fist and barking, “Susan? Can you ‘ear me? Oi, broad - open the fuckin’ door!”

 

“Oye, no Señor!” the woman shouts back, ramming the door with her shoulder to keep him out.

 

_Break this fuckin’ door down..._

 

He backs up to get a run at it; the door shuts with a _slam!_ He hears the woman scrambling for the lock as he prepares to charge.

 

“I’m comin’ Susan! Just ‘ang on, I’m -”

 

He feels a hand on his arm - the woman’s partner has climbed down the fire escape and snuck around the front. It’s an ambush!

 

He reaches for his gun as he whips around to face the assailant, snarling, “You let ‘er go, you bastard son of a -”

 

“Rick! Wait - it’s me! It’s Susan!” Susan’s hands are up in the air, waving _don’t shoot don’t shoot_. Her eyes are wide with terror and she’s shaking like a leaf.

 

“Susan! Thank the bloody stars!” He gathers her into his arms, muffling her squeak in his chest. He can feel her trembling against him.

 

 _Fuckin’ bastards’ll pay for this_.

 

He holds her out at arm's length, looking her over for cuts and scrapes. “ ‘ow did you get away? Out the bathroom window?”

 

He eyes her doubtfully.

 

Her mouth is working, wide eyes blinking at him like she can’t comprehend what he’s saying.

 

_Poor girl’s in shock._

 

“Susan,” he repeats louder, using his bulk to shield her from the door as he maneuvers her backwards towards the stairs.

 

_Got to get ‘er out of ‘ere before they come out guns blazin’-_

 

“Listen to me, Susan: don’t know ‘ow did they got inside your flat, but you’ve got to- “

 

She shakes her head like she’s trying to throw off a daze. Her fingers clutch at his shirt. “Wait, Rick - stop.”

 

_She’s comin’ out of it, thank God._

 

“Shh, it’s ok, Susan. I’ve got -”

 

“Rick, sweetie - that’s not my apartment.”

 

_…what?_

 

“S’not - wait, what you sayin’?”

 

She sighs, breath rising like a puff of smoke between them as she repeats slowly, “That’s not my apartment, Rick.”

 

_Oh. Shit._

 

“You sure?” he asks, looking back at the flat over his shoulder with a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach.

 

_Nope. Not ‘ers._

 

“I - I thought it was - that someone ‘ad -”

 

She gives his arm a gentle _pat-pat_ , teeth chattering as she says, “I know you did, baby. I know.”

 

He wants to disappear, to melt into the concrete landing and evaporate into the night _right now_.

 

_Made a fuckin’ muck of it already, didn’t yah?_

 

He stoops to pick up her flowers, holstering his gun and cursing under his breath.

 

“Come on.” She takes his hand in hers, shivering against the cold without a coat, and leads him the whole ten feet to her flat next door.

 

He sets the flowers on her coffee table as she locks the door behind them, feeling his cheeks heating up and Jesus fucking Christ is he _blushing_?

 

“I thought maybe you’d ‘ired a ‘ousemaid,” he mumbles, inspecting his Ferragamos for scuffs as she turns to him.

 

Hugging herself to get warm, she gives him an incredulous look. “A housekeeper?”

 

“Thought maybe someone ‘ad tried to burgle you or ‘old you for ransom or somethin’.”

 

She bites her lips together, breasts starting to jiggle with a laugh and does she think this shit is funny?

 

“Oi, I was worried ‘bout you!”

 

She smothers a snicker with her hand, nodding. “Uh-huh. I saw that. And heard. I think the whole neighborhood did.”

 

He feels like the world’s biggest jackass.

 

“Shit, Susan - I’m sorry...”

 

“Aw, sweetie -” She gives him a _you’re-so-pitiful-it’s-adorable_  look and rises onto her tiptoes, balancing herself with her hands on his chest, and kisses his jaw.

 

He takes her hands in his and threads them under his jacket and around his waist, where it’s warmer.

 

“Wasn’t thinkin’ clearly,” he mutters, looking into her pretty green eyes. He notices she’s pinned her fringe up.

 

She presses a kiss to his Adam’s apple. “Got a lot on your mind?”

 

_God, she smells so good._

 

He can feel himself getting hard.

 

“You,” he rumbles, dipping his head.

 

She’s smiling even as she tips her chin to catch his mouth with hers. He can feel her laughing at him as he sucks her plump bottom lip between his.

 

_Least she’s got a sense of ‘umor. And God love ‘er for it._

 

Their lips part with a sensual _smooch_.

 

“Can we start over?” he asks, lifting a curl off her shoulder and twisting it around his finger.

 

She smiles mischievously, dimples peeking out beneath the apples of her cheeks. “Hi - never seen you in my apartment before. My name’s Susan. What’s yours?”

 

He chuckles, pressing a soft kiss to her lips.

 

“Not _that_ far back, if you don’t mind?”

 

She wraps her arms about his neck as she mock-sighs in relief. “Oh good. I didn’t want to wait another three dates to sleep with you, anyway.”

 

That makes him laugh out-right.

 

He rubs little circles into her lower back, her dress -

 

“What’s this?” he asks, stepping back a bit to really look at her.

 

_Jesus fuckin’ Christ..._

 

She blushes prettily, looking up at him shyly through her lashes. “It’s new. Do you like it?”

 

She’s wearing a sexy black three-quarter-sleeve dress that shows off her tits. It’s some unbelievably soft material - velvet, he guesses, or velour. It ends a couple of inches above her knees, and she’s wearing -

 

“Stockings?” he chokes.

 

She giggles.

 

And her sexy little red wedges.

 

He takes her hand, holds it up over her head, and urges her to spin with a rumbled, “Turn ‘round.”

 

God, that ass. Wait - do her stockings have seams up the back?

 

“Bloody ‘ell, woman,” he groans as she completes her turn. “You tryin’ to kill me?”

 

She gives him sheepish smile that’s just a bit self-conscious. “Maybe.”

 

He can’t help himself; he drops to his knees in front of her, hikes the hem of dress high enough to push his head between her big soft thighs and mouth her mound through her knickers.

 

“Rick!” she shrieks. “What are you doing?!”

 

“What’s it look like?” he calls back gruffly, gripping a globe of her ass in his hand.

 

_Stay put, darlin’._

 

He uses the other to peel back the seam of her panties where they meet her thigh. He can smell her arousal as he works his fingers towards her slit. She’s already getting wet for him.

 

_Fuck._

 

She tries to wriggle out of his grip. “You are such a hound dog!”

 

He gives her a gravelly _woof-woof_ as he laps at her soft curls, trying to tug her knickers aside enough to lick her slit.

 

_Come on, now - fuckin’ things like a steel trap._

 

She wrenches the hem of her dress up over his head and gives him a sharp _swat!_

 

“Down, boy! Heel!”

 

“Oi!” He lifts his head, lips twitching to hide his grin as he leans back to look at her past the slope of her belly. “Steady on.”

 

She shakes her finger at him, voice firm as she scolds him. “Bad dog.”

 

Fuck if his cock’s not hard as a rock at that.

 

He trails his fingers lightly up and down the seam of her stocking.

 

“Sorry. Bloke can’t ‘elp ‘imself when you look like this. Never stood a chance.”

 

Her lashes flutter - from his hands on the backs of her thighs or from his words, he’s not sure which.

 

“It’s- it’s time for dinner,” she insists.

 

“What if I want my dessert first?” he rumbles, skimming his hand up her thigh to cup her sex.

 

She bats him away as she shimmies out of his reach, smoothing her skirt down with a stern look.

 

“Tough tots.”

 

He barks a laugh.

 

_Bossy little chit, innit she?_

 

“Alright, alright. Where you want me then?” he asks good-naturedly, knees popping as he pushes up off the floor. He adjust his hard-on, wincing.

 

_Down, boy. Later._

 

She points into her tiny breakfast nook. “Have a seat.”

 

“What, you don’t want ‘elp settin’ the table or nothin’?”

 

_Doesn’t want me cornerin’ ‘er in the kitchen, does she?_

 

“Go. Sit.”

 

“I’m goin’, your majesty,” he chuckles, holding up his hands.

 

“Thank you.”

 

She gives him a look through the pass-through as he takes his chair that says _no-more-tomfoolerly-from-you-tonight-buddy_.

 

He winks at her.

 

_Wouldn’t dream of it, sweet’eart._

 

“What’s all this?” he asks, noticing the table. She’s had a tidy-up; the papers and letters and odds-and-ends that usually clutter up her table have been tucked away, and she’s laid down a cloth and lit candles. He’s never seen these plates before - they’re heavy, nicer than the ones she normally uses.

 

She’s straining to stretch over the sink, setting a Dutch oven on the breakfast bar with a soft _whew_. She comes round the corner, pot holders in either hand. There’s a playful twinkle in her eye as she hefts the pot onto a trivet in the center of the table.

 

“Well,” she starts, nose wrinkling cutely as she gives him a dimpled smile. She slides into the chair adjacent to his. “You’ll be in the Czech Republic for a few days -”

 

She plucks up the wine bottle.

 

“And Thursday is Valentine’s day -”

 

Something warm unfurls in his chest.

 

She pours him a glass, tops off hers. ““So I thought…We could celebrate a little early.”

 

She sets the bottle down with a soft _thunk_.

 

His voice doesn’t work the first time, so he clears his throat and tries again.

 

“Susan Coopah, are you asking me to be your Valentine?”

 

She looks at him, face soft and eyes shining in the candlelight.

 

_God, this woman..._

 

She shrugs a shoulder, raising her glass for a sip as she murmurs coyly, “Whaddaya say?”

 

“Susan, I’m in love with you.”

 

She sprays a mouthful of wine all over the front of his hundred-and-fifty dollar dress shirt.

 

He blinks.

 

She claps her hand over her mouth, horrified.

 

_Well then._

 

“ 'ave to admit,” he drawls, patting wine off his chin with a napkin. “S’not quite the reaction I was ‘opin’ for.”

 

“Oh popsicle sticks!” She snatches up a potholder and pops out of her chair like a champagne cork, knocking over his glass as she reaches to blot his shirt. The glass spills a good half-cup - _approximately 113 grams_ , he notes dryly - of wine onto his crotch as it rolls off the edge of the table. It shatters when it hits the floor.

 

“Bloody hell!” he growls, fumbling with the napkin holder for more napkins.

 

“Oh, son of a bee sting - Rick, I am so sorry!”

 

She scrambles around the corner into the kitchen.

 

He starts to rise, shaking the wine off his shirtsleeves, but she calls through the pass-through, “Wait! Just stay right there - I’ve got club soda. Somewhere… where is the dang… Jiminy Christmas… aha!”

 

She bustles back into the breakfast nook, roll of paper towels tucked under one arm and a two-liter of club soda in each hand.

 

_What the fuck does she need all that soda for?_

 

“Ok, we can fix this,” she coos. He can’t help wonder to whom as she wrestles with the pull tab. She breaks the seal with a _snap!_

 

_Oh shit. Shit. Shit._

 

He reaches for the bottle. “Wait, sweet’eart - just let me -”

 

“No, I’ve got it -”

 

The soda bubbles rush up through the neck, frothing over the mouth of the bottle and onto his chest, his abs, his lap as she shrieks, trying to recap it.

 

She drops it instead; it lands on the floor with a wet _smack_ and whips back and forth along the floor like a fire hose in a cartoon, soaking them up to their knees in soda.

 

“Holy pudding pops!”

 

“ ‘ave mercy on me, Miss Coopah,” he pleads humorlessly, making a grab for the potholders as she winds what’s got to be fifty paper towels around her hand before she tears them off the roll.

 

She dabs and pats at his shirt frantically with her paper towel mitt.

 

“Oh gosh oh gosh oh gosh!”

 

“Susan, really - it’s fine -”

 

“No, no it’s not!” She drops to her knees next to his chair, mopping up the wine and soda in his lap and on the floor. Her paper towels have soaked through; she flails her hand, unable to pry herself loose.

 

She pins the wad to the floor with her other hand, head bowed as she tries to tug herself free.

 

“Mother-butler-Bounty-double-quilted-”

 

Abandoning the potholders in a soggy heap on the table, he props his elbow up, dropping his face into his hand as he laughs.

 

“Jesus Susan, if you didn’t like the suit, you coulda said so. Didn’t ‘ave to ruin it -”

 

He hears her sniffle. His gut clenches.

 

_She cut ‘erself on the glass?_

 

“Hey hey,” he calls softly. He brushes her hair back from her face.

 

“Susan. Susan, my darlin’.”

 

He ignores the way his wet clothes chaff against his skin as he turns to face her.

 

“Susan?” He tilts her chin up. Tears are rolling down her cheeks and clinging to her lashes, eyes wet and red-rimmed.

 

Something pinches sharp in the center of his chest even as he thinks, _Fuckin’ gorgeous_.

 

He tamps down the rising urge to kiss her.

 

“Why you cryin’, swee’eart?”

 

She swallows, whimpering, “I-I-I ruined your shirt…”

 

He laughs. “S’alright, luv - really. If there is anythin’ I ‘ave plenty of, it’s shirts.”

 

Her face crumples.

 

_Fuck._

 

Minding the glass, he lowers himself out his chair and onto the floor, cursing his wet bum as he sits in what’s probably a few centimeters of soda. He picks and tears at the wad of wet paper towels until her hand’s free, setting the lot of it on the table next to the pot holders with a wet _plop_.

 

The pitiful sounds she’s making are breaking his fucking heart.

 

_Sod it._

 

He drags her into his lap, legs bent at the knee on either side of her, and lays her head on his shoulder.

 

She curls her fingers in his shirt, nose pressed into the crook of his neck as she cries.

 

“Shh-shh-shh. S’ok, my luv. S’ok,” he murmurs into her hair as he rocks her. The ache in his chest expands, like it’s trying to push through his lungs and out of his ribcage.

 

“Susan - please, you’ve got to quit cryin’, darlin’. S’killin’ me.”

 

She hiccups. “S-s-sorry…”

 

He rubs her back tenderly. “Look at me.”

 

She does. Her makeup’s run a bit, and her eyes and nose are bright red, but she’s still beautiful.

 

He kisses her, because he doesn’t know what the fuck else to do and he wants to and he needs to and he _loves_ her.

 

_I love her._

 

“I love you.”

 

She touches the corner of his mouth, searching his face.

 

_What’s she lookin’ for?_

 

“Really?” she whispers.

 

“Nah, not really. The cryin’s a bit awkward though - thought you might stop if I said that.”

 

She swats his arm, giving him a watery giggle. “Stop.”

 

_There’s my girl._

 

He lifts her hand, lays it over his chest. Over his heart.

 

“Can’t stop,” he murmurs, looking into her big beautiful eyes. “God ‘elp me. I can’t stop.”

 

“Rick -”

 

He laces his fingers through hers, feeling like his heart will burn a hole through his chest if the ache doesn’t stop.

 

“Please, Susan. I’m _begging_ you - love me.”

 

“Rick.” Her mouth wobbles and her voice shakes as she whispers, “I love you. I love you _so much_.”

 

“Oh thank God,” he breaths, threading his fingers through her hair and kissing her. And kissing her and kissing her.

 

Later, they clean up the breakfast nook together, laughing as they sweep the bits of glass and mop up the soda with bath towels. They eat lukewarm cassoulet standing up in the kitchen. He washes dishes with her arms wrapped about his waist and her cheek pressed against his back.

 

They blow out the candles on the table before climbing into bed with bowls of chocolate ganache and strawberries. He lets her feed him a few berries before he strips her naked and smears the ganache across her skin. She wants to do the same to him, but considers his body hair and opts to dip his fingers to the knuckle in icing and suck them clean instead. An excellent compromise, he assures her.

 

When they make love, he kisses her deeply. Their breaths mingle, sighing and panting into one another as his hips move to a slow tempo, dragging sweet sweet sounds out of her like he’s never heard in all the times they’ve fucked. He reaches between them to touch her as he whispers in her ear her how beautiful she, how much he’s longed for her, how much he loves her. She comes chanting his name like a prayer. There’s an ache in his gut that builds and builds, until he’s trembling all over as he comes - nose buried in the crook of her neck and hands fisting in the sheets and in her hair.

 

She curls herself around him, pressed warm and soft into his back with an arm about his waist, as they fall asleep.

 

He doesn’t dream.

  
  
  


 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So maybe not the Fine-interferes-fight-ensues chappie everyone was anticipating. Oh, Fine *wanted* to be the one behind Door Number 1, but at the last minute I decided to stuff him into the boot of my Corolla and let these two have their moment.
> 
> Because let's be honest - that breakroom disagreement was small potatoes to Fine. This home-wrecking-career-destroying douche bag has much bigger plans up his bony little sleeve.
> 
> *Fine laughs evilly from the trunk of Pastel's car*
> 
> And you all know by now I'm Ford!centric, so I had to let my dog have his day. 
> 
> Here's looking at you, Ford. To the best muse a girl could ask for.
> 
> Love,  
> Pastel
> 
> P.s. Comments are shamelessly encouraged. *wiggles provocatively* Shameless...


	20. Baby Come Back, You Can Blame It All On Me. I Was Wrong, And I Just Can't Live Without You Part I

“You are such a fibber, Rick!”

“Am not!” He fights a smile as he claps a hand over his heart. He gives her a wounded look.

“You are too!” Susan whoops, tugging her hand out of his elbow to gesture wildly. Her cheeks are flushed in the cold, breath coming out in long streams. “You cannot give yourself CPR! It’s just not possible. Medically. At all!”

He laughs, stopping and tugging her to him by her elbow. She stumbles into him lightly, tipping her chin up to smile at him.

“Oh yeah? Let me show you.” He dips his head, catching her in a kiss. Her warm little tongue slips into his mouth as she wraps her arms about his neck, careful not to spill her coffee.

He loves her so much.

“I tell you how beautiful you are today, my darlin’?” he rumbles when they come up for air.

Her eyes are still on his mouth as she blinks a few times, breathing, “I can’t remember.”

She looks up at him with an exaggerated dazed expression. “Who are you again?”

“Rick,” he grins. “You’re Susan.”

“Susan.” She thinks about that. “That’s a nice name.”

He chuckles, tightening his arms about her waist. “I think so.”

“You know, Rick, I think the point of administering CPR is to breathe air _back into_ the recipient. Not suck air _out of_.”

“Is it?” He touches his forehead to hers, wishing they were still in bed together, nothing separating their bodies but sheets. Did they have time to fuck in his car before work?

She rubs her nose against his. “It’s the whole ‘resuscitation’ thing.”

He kisses her lightly. “Aaah. Aren’t you a clever one, figuring that out all on your own?”

She rolls her eyes, giving him that _God-you’re-so-stupid-it’s-cute_ smile. “That’s what the _R_ stands for, Rick.”

“We don’t all ‘ave a degree in rocket surgery, Miss Coopah.”

She laughs out loud at that. “What?!”

He cups the back of her head and kisses her again, feeling her shake in his arms as she laughs at him. He hears the clinking of dog tags and the pounding of footsteps as a runner and his dog pass them on the sidewalk. The bells at St. Patrick’s _ding-dong_ in the distance, calling parishioners to morning mass.

“I love you,” she murmurs when they pull apart, sweet smile on her face and a light in her beautiful green eyes that he only sees when they’re outside on these cold, clear March mornings.

God, he wants to kiss her and kiss her. “I love you, Susan.”

“What time is it?” she whispers, fingering his coat collar.

_Not the only one fancin’ a tumble in the backseat?_

He smirks as he lifts his wrist, works his watch out from under his coat sleeve and shirt cuff. “Seven-o-two.”

“Perfect.” She nips lightly at his bottom lip, flicks the tip of her tongue along the seam of his mouth.

_Like where this is goin’._

“Oh?” He presses his hard-on into her. “Why’s that?”

"Because," she gives him an up-and-down look, mischievous glint in her eye, "we have time to get breakfast.”

He snorts. _  
_

She looks around, spies a rubbish bin twenty feet away. She cocks her arm, tosses her empty paper coffee cup. It lands in the center of the bin.

“Come on, baby.” She tucks her hand in at his elbow, digs his car keys out of her coat pocket.

He fires his cup at the bin with a grunt. It hits the rim, somersaults over the top and lands on the sidewalk with a wet _smack_.

A housewife speed-walking past them in a magenta velour tracksuit shoots him a dirty look and mouths, _Litterer_.

_Damn it._ “It was ‘alf-full.”

Susan nods, biting her lips together. “Mm, mm-hm.”

“Arm’s still stiff,” he grumbles, steering them towards the parking lot. The sky to the West is still a dark blue.

“Of course,” she says seriously, giving him a consolatory _pat-pat_. “Whose wouldn’t be after hanging one-handed off the side a speeding freight train for thirty miles?”

He rolls his arm in its socket. “With a rocket launcher.”

“Oh gosh, how could I forget?”

He gives her ass a sharp _slap_ as he opens the driver side door for her. The effect is lost a bit through her wool coat, but she turns and gives him a kiss on the cheek before she climbs in. “Bob and Edith’s?”

He shrugs, still smarting a little. “S’all the fuckin’ same to me.”

She pinches his chin lightly, tipping it down to meet her as she stretches up to press a kiss to his lips.

He waits for her to buckle her seatbelt before he closes her door. 

____________________________________________________________________________

The diner’s quiet - it usually is at this time in the morning during the workweek. It’s far enough from the office that they don’t run into anyone they know, which they both prefer. Susan because she doesn’t like to advertise to the office that they’re seeing each other, and him because she’s relaxed when she’s not worried about her colleagues catching them in the act.

He likes this: the two of them, sitting at a table together, having breakfast before work. It doesn’t happen often, what with him traveling and all, so he savors it when it does.

He lets the pleasant sound of her chattering wash over him, mingling with the clinking of cutlery against plates and the crooning of the Sinatra record playing in an endless loop from the jukebox. She looks so pretty in the mornings in her little cardigans and blouses; today she’s wearing a cream twin set with grey pinstriping and a charcoal-colored pencil skirt. Her hair is in soft curls, perfectly smooth, and she’s got on glossy little grey pumps with rounded toes. He wants to lay her out on the table and muss her up.

Would she wear a pearl necklace and earrings if he bought them for her?

“Rick.”

“Hmm?”

She makes The Face, leaning in a little to whisper, “Gosh dang it - I hate it when you do that!”

He tries to tear his eyes away from where her tits press together over the top of her blouse. “What?”

“When you pretend like you’re listening and you’re not really listening. I just told you I think we should legalize homosexual parakeet marriages in all fifty states, and you said, _Too right_.” She crosses her arms over her chest. 

He takes a sip of his coffee, lips twitching to hide his grin. “Well why shouldn’t we? Took an oath to support liberty and justice and shit when I became a citizen of this country, and that includes people and their queer bird fetishes. ‘ow the fuck does it go: life, liberty, and the pursuit of fuckin’ ‘appiness?”

She props her elbow on the table and rubs the spot between her brows. “What did I do to deserve this?”

He takes a bite of his omelette, gesturing broadly with his fork as he says around a mouthful, “S’karma, sweet’eart. No one fuckin’ understands it. ‘cept the Asians. And the Chinese.”

He catches her smile out of the corner of his eye, and hides his behind another sip of coffee.

“I was asking you,” she straightens her knife and spoon beside her plate, smoothes her napkin in her lap, studiously avoiding his eyes. “If you had plans for Easter.”

_Oh? What’s all this, then?_

“Sides bangin’ you, you mean?”

“Rick!” she hisses, looking around the near-empty diner wildly for what he mentally refers to as The Propriety Police.

“What?” he says a little louder. “We are bangin’, aren’t we? S’Easter, afterall. What’s that expression: at it like rabbits? S’what I want to do to you, darl-”

She covers his mouth with her hand. “Shh shh! Stop.”

He nods at her, corner of his eyes crinkling, _I’ll be good._

She takes her hand away slowly, eying him warily. She points her finger in his face. “I mean it, Rick. Behave.”

Wearing that serious little expression and her school madam outfit…

“What you want then?” he rumbles, eyes on her pretty pink lips.

“I- well, I- every year there’s this thing and I-”

“Susan, out with it.”

“Do you want to come with me to Wisconsin for Easter?”

“Wisconsin?” He blinks.

_Wisconsin. Her family. Right_.

“- of course, you don’t want to. I mean, hello! It’s Wisconsin. Who needs that much cheese-”

“Love to.”

She takes a breath, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Really?”

He snorts. Is she joking? She could tell him to lick the floor and he’d do it. Go to Wisconsin? Easy as pie.

“Absolutely.”

_Silly girl._

He didn’t think it was possible for a person to look relieved and miserable at the same time, but she does. “Ok then. Great. Super cool.”

____________________________________________________________________________

They pull into the parking deck at Langley with ten minutes to spare, and he convinces her to give him a kiss before they climb out of the car. She indulges him, making those hot little noises for him as he kneads the tender spots at the nape of her neck and the base of her skull.

“Rick!” she huffs, slapping his other hand away and glancing self-consciously out the windows when he squeezes her breast.

“What?” he purrs, trying to kiss her neck. Before he can get a proper grip on her, he hears her seatbelt click and her door open and she’s wriggling out of the car.

He leans across the seat, watching her tug skirt down her ass. He gives her a low wolf-whistle. “Gettin’ in the back? Good thinkin’.”

She tries not to smile as she opens the driver-side backseat door, one eye on him for any grab-attempts as she yanks her handbag and tote off the floorboard between the seats. “No way, Jose.”

He adjusts his hard-on as he climbs out of the car, slamming the door shut. He watches her hustle for the lift without so much as a backwards glance at him. She doesn’t like for them to go in together, which he thinks is ridiculous - everyone knows about them - and he suspects it has something to do with Fine.

_Fuckin’ wanker._

“Am I takin’ you to lunch?” he calls after her, waiting dutifully by the car with his hands in his pockets.

“I’ll think about it!” She gives him a warm smile and a little wave as the lift doors close.

Someone to his left calls, “Ah, love is in the air, every sight and every sound!”

“Patrick,” Ford nods as Patrick sidles up to him, a playful twinkle in his eye.  

“You’ve got a little…” Patrick tickles his fingers near his mouth.

Ford touches the back of his hand to his lips, sees a sloppy pink lip mark when he looks at his hand. “Ah.”

Patrick fishes an individually wrapped moist towelette out of his shoulder bag. “Voila.”

“Thanks, mate.” Ford rips it open with his teeth as they walk together to the lift.

“So,” Patrick folds his arms over his chest when they file inside. “You two kittens seem pretty smitten. All’s well in paradise?”

Ford grins, tucking his hands in his pockets. “No complaints.”

Patrick purses his lips, _tsk_ ing lightly. “Still, I always pictured you with an Elizabeth Taylor - tall, sleek, brunette…”

He smoothes a hand along the side of his dark brown hair.

“Nah,” Ford gives him a cheeky wink. “Always ‘ad a thing for doe-eyed strawberry blondes. A real Ann-Margret, with a bit more meat on ‘er.”

Patrick sighs dramatically, looking up and to the corner forlornly. “Fine, fine - break my heart.”

They step out together as the lift dings; Ford gives him a good-natured _thump_ on the back. “Ah, Patrick, come on. You know I’ve never been able to bat left-’anded. Just doesn’t come natural to me.”

Patrick snorts, saying wryly, “Believe me, I know.”

Ford gives him another grin as he empties his pockets into the plastic bin at the x-ray machine. “But you know if I ever decide to switch-hit, you’re the only bowler I’d swing for.”

Patrick shivers. “God I love it when you talk British gentleman’s sports to me.”

Ford barks a laugh at that.

“Speaking of men’s sports,” Patrick says out of the side of his mouth when they get through the metal detectors.

Sharon is waiting for them in faded leggings and an oversized tie-dyed Bob Marley tee shirt. _One Love_ is scrawled across her tits, and she’s gathered her hair into a messy top knot. Her bright orange parka is thrown over one shoulder.

_S’a wonder she’s single, this one._

“Sure, take your time ladies. I’ll just stand here like a jackass,” she harrumphs.

“Well, ‘ello to you too, my little mornin’ dove,” Ford nudges her with a half-grin.

Sharon gives him a _I-fucking-told-you-not-to-call-me-that_ look as she shoulders her purse.

“Gimme that.” He holds out his hand for her jacket and work tote.

_She pack bricks in this fuckin’ thing or what?_

“Dollface,” Patrick waves his finger from the tip of her head to her scuffed suede booties. “What in the high heavens?”

“Just - can you fix me or not?” she huffs, shifting uncomfortably as they wait for the interior lift.

“Lucky for you, I’m a miracle-worker,” Patrick snaps back, swiping his access card and mashing the button for the lab floor.

They have a bizarre relationship, Patrick and Sharon. Sort of a love-hate thing, without the love bit.

“What are you smiling at?” she glowers at Ford.

His grin widens, thinking about Cooper asking him to meet her family over breakfast. “Tell you later.”

“Oh, sure. Keep your secrets. By all means,” Patrick sighs dramatically as the lift opens.

Ford shoots Sharon a smirk as he scans his hand at the security panel. The sign above the glass lab doors says _Caution: Maximum Security Clearance Only Beyond This Point_.

“Richard Ford. Status: Active Agent. Access Granted,” the panel says in a smooth, electronic voice.

The lab doors open with a quiet hiss.

“Well well, look what the cat dragged in.”

Ford spots Fine first; he’s leaning casually on Patrick’s workstation, picking under his nails with what Ford guesses is probably a very delicate and very expensive chiseling tool.

“Agent Fine,” Patrick greets him coolly, plucking the tool out of Fine’s hand and dropping it into a bin at the end of the lab table labelled _Sanitizing Solution_.

Fine ignores him, looking Sharon up and down with a wide smile that’s all malevolence and sneer. “Sharon. This is a new take on career casual.”

Leering at her tits as he asks, “No more eighties power suits at the Bargain Corral?”

Ford takes a half-step in front of her, hot anger spiking through his chest as his hands curl into fists, but Sharon’s never backed down from a fight, and she shoulders past him with a snarled, “Eat me, Fine.”

The corners of Fine’s mouth quirk down as though he’s giving that some consideration as he straightens his cuffs. “I’d love to. Tell you what, Share, I’ll even buy you dinner. I know this great little restaurant in your neighborhood - really upscale for the area. Oh, what’s it called?”

He snaps his fingers, “Oh that’s right, the International House of Pancakes.”

_Done. Fuckin’ done._

Sharon blusters, “Fuck you, Fine-”

Ford takes her by the upper arms and bodily lifts her out of his way, setting her to the side as he steps right into Fine’s personal space. The movement’s so fast that Sharon barely has time to squawk, “Ass!”

He grabs Fine by the collar, forcing a bend in Fine’s knees as he shakes him viciously. “Got a real fuckin’ talent for fuckin’ with my women, don’t you? You got a death wish, you silly fuckin’ wanker? Death by beatin’ - that’s what you want?”

Fine claws at Ford’s hands as he barks at Patrick, “Do something, God damn it.”

Ford raises his fist. “Say the fuckin’ word, Fancy, and I’ll make all your dreams come true.”

“Boys,” Patrick says in a bored tone. “There’s millions of dollars worth of equipment in here, and I have a firm you-break-it-you-buy-it policy.”

Fine jostles for footing; Ford maneuvers him easily into a headlock. He ignores the sharp elbow to the rib as he growls, “‘ear that, Fancy? You break it, you buy it. You good for it? Or are you goin’ to need someone to bail you out again, you girlie piece of shit-”

“Ok, killer.” Sharon’s laid her hand firmly on Ford’s bicep. “He gets the picture.”

_Don’t think so. Needs a sound beatin’ before he really gets it._

Still, the sting of the humiliation should keep Fine in line for a month or two. And there’s always a dark alley or deserted train station in some Eastern European country. Opportunity just needs to present itself-

“Ford.” Sharon waits until he looks her in the eye. “Cut him loose.”

He does. Fine stumbles forward, wingtips _clop-clopp_ ing on the linoleum as he pitches forward. Catching his footing, he turns and spits, “You- you can’t just put your hands on people like that Ford. It’s illegal, and there are conse-”

Ford snorts, thumbs his nose. “S’that right? Way you’re dressed, I’d say you were askin’ for it.”

He gives Fine a purposeful leer. “Innit what you’ll tell HR, when Sharon reports you for sexual harassment?”

Fine inhales sharply through his nose.

_Who’s the stupid fuck now?_

“Funny thing about these digital security systems,” Ford glances meaningfully at the camera in the ceiling near Patrick’s work station. “They’re so fuckin’ buggy.”

He looks at Patrick. “Wouldn’t you say so?”

Patrick nods blandly. “It’s a known issue. Analogue was so much more reliable, honestly. It’s just a nightmare to keep up with all those tapes-”

“ _I came_ ,” Fine says loudly, face turning redder and redder by the second, “to ask about my watch.”

He glances between Ford and Sharon with a look of pure loathing. “But I can see you’re busy. I’ll come back later.”

“Don’t bother,” Patrick sighs.

“Why the fuck not?” Fine grinds out through gritted teeth.

Patrick blinks slowly, unruffled. “The part’s not in yet.”

Fine takes a deep breath, fingers flexing at his sides.

Ford’s chest puffs out. _Wish you fuckin’ would..._

“Well can you track it so that I know when I can expect to pick it up?”

Patrick clucks his tongue. “Actually, it’s just - I’d have to find the tracking number, and call FedEx, and I just… really don’t want to…”

Fine wrenches his dress shirt sleeve up and jabs his finger at the huge gaudy gold wristwatch. It’s at least five versions behind the latest standard-issue timepiece, and it’s the ugliest fucking watch Ford’s ever seen.

“I cannot read this… this… piece of shit, Patrick.”

“Bet I can ‘elp you with that,” Ford crows, taking a step towards Fine. He revels in Fine’s flinch.

“Taught ‘er boy,” he nods at Sharon as he shakes his cuff off his own Rolex. He taps the watch face. “Look ‘ere: see this big ‘and? It tells you the hour,” he says _hour_ slowly.

“The little hand,” he taps the face again, “tells you the min-utes. See these dots? Those are the numbers that tell you the time. One o’clock, two o’clock, three…”

Fine points his finger straight at Ford’s chest. “Fuck you, Ford.”

“Well if you want me to explain it slower-”

Fine wheels around, stalking loudly out of the lab. He bumps into a pair of interns as they come in, flouncing through a flurry of papers to the lift.

Ford watches him until the lift doors shut, feeling his shoulder blades drop down his back and some of the tension slack in his jaw when they finally do close.

“He’s going to get you back for that,” Sharon murmurs at his elbow.

Ford’s chest tightens. “‘e puts a fuckin’ finger on you,” he looks at her, “it’ll be the last thing ‘e ever does.”

She shakes her head, saying softly, “Not me, Mav.”

_Susan._

An image of her, tucked in next to him with her head on his chest, snoring softly as she sleeps, flashes in his mind.

Ford’s nostril flare. The urge to find Fine and introduce him face-first to his tire iron flashes through him like lightening.

Patrick’s droll monotone breaks the silence. “That was _so_ Westside Story. Lawd, I need a cocktail.”

Sharon laughs her robotic _ha ha_. Ford flashes Patrick a smirk.

“Is the part for Fancy’s watch really not in yet?”

Patrick snorts. “What part? It’s a calibration issue. I had it fixed twenty minutes after he brought it in for me to look at.”

That sends Sharon into genuine peals of laughter.

Ford grins. “I could kiss you.”

Patrick shoots him a coy look. “Lay it on me, sugar.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *on a beach in my imagination* *Halls & Oats, Baby Come Back playing*
> 
> Pastel:* shades eyes and looks across the sand* Ford?!  
> Ford: *running towards Pastel*  
> Pastel: Ford! *runs towards Ford* Ford, oh my God, I am so sorry. I was wrong, and I just can't live without-  
> Ford: *runs right past Pastel* Susan!
> 
> *further down the beach, Cooper looks up from where she's letting the waves lap at her toes*  
> Cooper: Rick?  
> Ford: *sprinting* Susan!  
> Cooper: Rick!
> 
> *Ford and Cooper embrace and kiss as the camera spins around them*
> 
> Pastel: *looks embarrassed* Well, I-  
> Tom Brant: *cigarette dangling from corner of mouth* Don't like this one bit, Pastel  
> Pastel: *gulps*  
> Tom Brant: I ever tell you the Irish invented knee-cappin'? Nasty business, it is. They fix you up, but you'll always 'ave a limp.  
> Pastel: *to Ford and Cooper* Uh, guys, a little help here? *squeaks* Please?
> 
> If you're happy and you know it write a review! *clap clap*
> 
> **had to edit this. wasn't lovin' it**


	21. Baby Come Back, You Can Blame It All On Me. I Was Wrong, And I Just Can't Live Without You Part II

“Ow! Damnit, Patrick - you are pulling on purpose -”

“You know what they say, dollface: pain is beauty.”

“Call me that _one more time_ -”

_For fuck’s sake…_

Ford crosses one arm over his chest and props his elbow on it, dropping his face into his hand.

“Sharon,” he calls over the partition behind Patrick’s workstation, “it’s a round-table review, not a promenade. ‘urry the fuck up.”

Patrick steps around the screen, delicately smoothing a hand over the side of his hair. “You cannot rush art, mon cher.”

Ford snorts. _This shit better be good._

With a theatrical flourish of his hands, Patrick announces grandly, “I give you… Evita on the Balcony!”

Ford drumrolls his hands on the metal worktable.

He stops mid-drum when Sharon steps out from around the partition. His jaw drops open. “Holy fuckin’ shit, Goosey...”

Sharon smoothes her hands down the thighs of her beige dress slacks. Tucked into them is a soft pink silk blouse; over that she’s wearing a fitted beige jacket with a bit of cream ruffle at the cuffs and the collar. Her mop of blonde hair is slicked back into a glossy bun, and she’s got on a pair of nude pumps with little gold bows on the toes. Patrick’s made up her eyes with soft browns and topped her off with a light pink lipstick.

“What?” She glances down at herself critically, mouth pulling to the side in a frown. “Do I look stupid? I look stupid. Mav - tell me if I look stupid.”

“You look-” He scrubs a hand over his head. He can’t stop staring at her as he searches for the words. “Like… a woman.”

He doesn’t know why, exactly, but seeing her like this makes him swell with pride, even as there’s a ping of sadness in the center of his chest.

_Wish Travis could see this._

“Maverick!” Sharon props a hand on her hip, slaps the other sharply against her thigh. “How is that helpful?”

The gesture makes her look more familiar.

An image of her sitting at his dining room table in a baggy sweatshirt, feet tucked under her bum and her baby in her lap, feeding Danny-boy applesauce while they play dominos, shimmers in Ford’s mind.

Ford shakes his head, grinning to himself.

_Unbelievable._

“You clean up good, Goosey,” he says, as much to that girl in his flat as to the woman standing in front of him.

She smoothes a hand over her hair, looking self-conscious. He really does forget sometimes she’s only twenty-seven. “You think so, huh?”

“Come on, old girl,” he grins. “Would your old chum Ford lie to you?”

She cracks a smile. “Definitely.”

Patrick comes back from around the partition with her clothes pinched in one hand, held out at arm’s length. “I’ll just… throw these in the incinerator.”

“Don’t you fucking dare, Patty,” Sharon snaps, but there’s no edge to it.

“Call it a social service,” he quips, pursing his lips. He makes an _L_ with his thumb and forefinger, closing one eye as he frames her with it. “You are so vibing Madonna circa nineteen-ninety-six. It’s like I can feel her aura around you.”

Ford considers that as he crosses his arms. He nods, “Yah, I can see it.”

“Puh-lease! You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” she scoffs.

Patrick gasps. “Three things I know by heart, Blondie. First: the theatrical score of Wind Beneath My Wings. Second: the amount to-the-gram of tetrodotoxin needed to render Rick Ford helpless and at my mercy-” He blows Ford a kiss.

Sharon makes a choking sound. Ford smirks.

“And third: my Madonna years. So don’t,” he snaps his fingers.

“Try.” Snap.

“Me.” Snap.

“Sister.” He finishes with an eyebrow quirk at her.

“Well, in that case-” Sharon suddenly raises her arms in a wide _V_ and throws her head back, belting off-key, “Don’t cry for me Argentin-aaa, the truth is I nev-er left you!”

_What in the fuckin’ ‘ell?_

Several of the interns startle, covering their ears as they look around for the source of the sound.

Patrick lights up like the fourth of July, dropping her clothes to press his fingertips to his chest as he raises his other hand towards the ceiling. “All through my wild days, my mad existence-”

They reach out to each other as they croon in unison, “I kept my pro-mise. Don’t keep your distance…”

Ford chuckles, shaking his head as he asks, “Jesus, you two fuckin’ showgirls do rails of coke back there or somethin’?”

Patrick swishes his hand over his face. “And _scene_.”

____________________________________________________________________________

Ford offers to escort her down the hall with her hand in his elbow. She declines with a scoffed, “Get real, Mav.”

He opts to walk a half-step behind her instead, glaring menacingly at the male colleagues they pass in the halls. A few spit-take into their coffee mugs, a couple openly gawk. Wright glances at them over his shoulder as he opens the round table room door and does an impressive double-take.

He makes like he’s going to hold the door open for her, then catches the look on Ford’s face and thinks better of it.

_Oldest trick in the book._ He smirks, thinking about Susan.

“Ah, fuck,” Sharon mutters miserably as they approach the door. “I _hate_ public speaking.”

Ford gives her a reassuring _thump-thump_ on the back, murmuring, “Don’t worry, Goosey. They’ll all be starin’ at your tits, anyway.”

“Ugh - you are such a pig, Ford.”

He snickers.

The chatter in the room dies down as they step in. Sharon tugs at the hem of her suit jacket and manages a brisk, “Good morning” to the room.

The conference room is cramped; first quarter round-table reviews mean the agents and their handlers meet collectively to talk through their statuses on missions and intel gathering. It’s a practice from a bygone era - every fucking thing in the world is digital now, including their assignment logs and intelligence database. But Whitaker is a dinosaur, and so here they are.

The analysts are packed together in a cramped semi-circle around the parameter of the room. He spots Susan sitting poised and alert between Nancy and Leslie. Sharon waves at her warmly.

Susan has a floored expression as she returns the wave, giving Sharon a shocked once-over. Nancy leans in and whispers something in Susan’s ear. Susan snaps her mouth shut and flashes Ford a tentative smile, dimples popping out briefly under the apples of her cheeks.

He winks back at her. _Pretty girl._

There’s one open seat left at the table, and it’s Ford’s. He looks around, spies an empty chair in a dark corner of the conference room, under the brown drooping foliage of an umbrella tree in its final death throes. That would be Sharon’s.

_You’ve got to be fuckin’ kiddin’ me._

Fine’s sitting in the rolling chair beside Ford’s. He’s pointedly ignoring Ford, pretending to be captivated by whatever silly nonsense Walker is twittering on about across the table.

Ford drops his files and pen at his place with a loud _whack_ that makes Walker jump in her seat. He smacks his lips and smirks.

“You.” He points at Fine.

“Up.” He jabs his thumb at the ceiling.

“You’re in ‘er seat.” He jerks his head at Sharon.

She takes a breath to say something, but he holds his hand out low between them, makes a fist. _Hold._

He feels more than sees her back off.

Fine snorts. “Excuse me?”

Ford grips the back of Fine’s chair with one hand and plants the other on the table.

“I said: you’re in her seat.” He annunciates each word carefully.

The room is so quiet he can hear someone snapping pictures with their camera phone.

Somehow, even seated, Fine manages to look down his nose at Ford as he replies regally, “Oh? I was not aware we had assigned seats.”

He gives Fine a congenial smile that makes Fine’s eye twitch.

“S’no problem,” he claps him hard on the shoulder. “‘’appens to the best of us. You’re such a _gent_ , I said to myself: Just tell the chap. ‘e’ll make it right.”

He digs his fingers Fine’s shoulder, voice even as he says, “Won’t you, Fine?”

Fine glances around at the other agents; Ford’s not surprised when no one will make eye contact with him.

Ford smirks. He may not be the brightest crayon in the tool shed, but he is the sharpest, and they all know it.

_Big man when you’re bullyin’ women, aren’t you, boy? Let’s see ‘ow tough you are now._

“Wha- I-” Fine pushes back from the table, trying to surreptitiously shake off Ford’s hand as he stands. “Of course.”

There’s a blush creeping up from under the collar of Fine’s shirt as he gathers his things, and Ford hopes to God whoever is documenting this little moment gets it on film.

Fine gestures to his chair, eyes narrowed coldly as they sweep over her. “Sharon.”

“Thank you,” she plops down, shooting Ford a look that says, _Jackass. Never change_.

He takes his seat beside her, knocking her knee with his under the table as he opens his folder. Susan launches out of her chair like a missile to drag it over to the table. She crams it wordlessly between Cress and Wright, mouth drawn into a tight line.

_That’s my girl_ , he thinks, until he sees her take the empty seat in the corner of the room as Fine settles himself in hers.

His gut twists.

He tries to catch her eye, but before he can, Whitaker appears, marching in all his pomp and circumstance to the head of the room and barking, “This is our first quarter review, people. No pussyfooting around; we’ve got a lot of ground to cover, and I expect you all to be prepared to speak _at length_ to your individual assignments.”

He and Sharon share a look as everyone shuffles their papers frantically. She whispers something to him, but he can’t hear it over the roaring in his ears.

The sight of Susan dragging her chair over to the table for Fine plays in his mind on an endless loop.

____________________________________________________________________________

They break for lunch.

It’s mass exodus as all ten agents and their handlers try to funnel out of the single-wide conference room door at once. He stands by the exit, trying to catch Susan on her way out.

Whitaker intercepts him, practically shoving Susan out of the door as he barrels past them for the men’s room.

By the time he spots her near the lifts, Fine’s already dragged her into a huddle-up. The two of them are whispering together furiously; Susan articulates her points with sharp jabs of her ballpoint pen.

She shoots Ford a withering glare as he passes her. Something cold slips through his stomach.

He decides to wait for her at her desk, punching _0_ for the basement. He overhears Fine hissing, “- don’t understand why she needs to sit at the table in the first place. It’s completely inappropriate -” as the lift opens.

He scrubs a hand over his face when the doors close. He doesn’t know who he’s more cheesed off with, Fancy or Susan. Does she really think she’s doing herself any favors, pandering to that spoiled, arrogant arsehole?

He settles back against the edge of her desk and crosses his arms as he waits for her. There’s a dull pressure starting to build above the bridge of his nose and behind his eyes, and by the time she steps off the lift with Nancy, he’s figured out who he’s angrier at.

It’s her.

Nancy breaks away with a nervous smile at Ford and a bright, “Later, Susan!”, looking back at them over her shoulder as she ducks into the breakroom.

Susan eyes him coolly, making to step around him into her cube.

He cuts her off.

She exhales loudly through her nose. “Excuse me.”

“Goin’ somewhere?”

“Yes.” She meets his eyes. “To lunch.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “With?”

“Fine.”

That kicks like a punch in the gut. “Oh? S’that right?”

She props her hands on her hips, making a soft scoffing sound. “Is there something I can help you with, Agent Ford?”

He leans in a little, lowering his voice. “Why yes, Miss Coppah, there is. Mind tellin’ me what the fuck your think you were doin’ in there?”

She takes a step closer, rage eclipsing her pretty face as she grinds out, “ _Do not_ talk to me like that here.”

He sees someone approaching out of the corner of his eye.

Susan’s body language shifts; she smiles warmly at her passing colleague. “Hi Shelly, going to lunch?”

Shelly nods, eyes darting between the two of them before she offers Susan a tentative smile. “Yeppers. You two going out?”

“Still deciding,” Susan says sweetly. “By the way, there’s cake in the breakroom! Dan came out of his coma.”

“Oh wow, that’s great!” Shelly beams.

Susan’s tinkling laugh fades as Shelly beelines for the breakroom.

“Move, Rick.”

“Well that’s quite a tone-change, innit?” he sneers.

She pushes past him - _forget ‘ow stout she is_ \- and bends down to snatch her purse out from underneath her desk.

“Susan-”

“Shh!” She glares at him as she yanks her coat off the hanger, hissing, “You have embarrassed me enough for one day. Do not make a scene in my office!”

“ _I’ve_ embarrassed _you_ enough?” he growls, hot on her heels as she trots for the lift. “Fuckin’ hilarious. It’s nothin’ compared to ‘ow you embarrassed yourself.”

She double-times it. At the panel, she mashes   _P1_ for the parking garage, foot tapping impatiently as she watches the floor numbers above the doors light up in descending order.

“Susan, Goddamnit-”

As the lift dings closed behind them, she whips around, jabbing her finger at him and shouting, “You humiliated me, Rick!”

She pinwheels her arm. “In front of everybody-”

“‘ow? ‘ow the fuck did I humiliate you?”

She looks at him like she can’t believe her ears. “Are you freaking kidding me? How? HOW?”

She pokes him in the chest. “That macho bullcrap you pulled with Fine - kicking him out of his seat - what was that about, Rick? Huh? What the eff were you trying to prove?”

“What the fuck was I tryin’ to prove?” He jabs his finger in her face; she slaps it away, so he jabs it at the floor.

“Innit obvious? Am I fuckin’ delirous, because I thought I was clear as a bloody bell. I’m not askin’ Sharon to sit in the corner of the room like some seen-and-not-’eard shit-”

“Oooh, heaven forbid,” Susan interrupts, gesturing wildly again, “That Sharon should have to sit with the rest of us-”

“You’re missin’ the fuckin’ point. It’s not about ‘er sittin’ with _the rest of us_ ,” he makes aggressive air quotes, “it’s about ‘er bein’ treated with respect-”

“I just don’t understand why she needs to sit at the table in the first place,” Susan throws her hands up in the air. “It’s completely inappropriate-”

Something about hearing her repeat Fine’s words verbatim makes him snap.

“Jesus, do you fuckin’ ‘ear yourself, Susan? She’s my fuckin’ _handler_ \- not a Goddamn secretary. She was a tactical specialist in the US Army and decorated officer and she’s saved my worthless arse more times than I can fuckin’ count.”

He’s so furious now he feels like the rage will push right through his ribcage. Susan dragging her chair to the table for Fine plays over and over and over again in his mind.

“I won’t ‘ave some nancy little ponce bitch treat ‘er like a fuckin’ bimbo, makin’ ‘er order ‘is lunches and carry ‘is coffee around and wipe ‘is worthless arse for ‘im like she’s ‘is Goddamn ‘ousemaid just because she’s got ‘er ‘ead so far up ‘is arse she can’t see what a fuckin’ fool she looks like-”

Aaand he’s not talking about Sharon anymore, is he?

_Shit. Fuck. Goddamn._

The bottom drops out of his stomach. He barely registers the bright _bing!_ the lift makes as the doors open.

Susan takes a deep breath, pulling her shoulders back and lifting her chin. When she meets his eyes, he sees hers are shining, and she sniffs lightly before as she says quietly, coolly, “I had no idea that’s how you felt about me, Rick.”

She hikes her purse up her shoulder, stepping around him.

He’s rooted to the floor, cold shock washing over him.

How he feels about her? No, hang on - that’s how _Fine_ feels about her.

His brain kicks into gear as the doors slide closed; he sticks his arm between them, prying them open enough to slither through them. “Wait! Susan - shit - wait!”

He looks left-and-right, spots her climbing into Fine’s-

_No. No no no-_

“Susan! SUSAN!”

Fine’s Lexus reverses out of its spot and peels off around the corner towards the exit to Main Street, tires squealing on the concrete. He thinks he can see Fine’s gloating look in the rearview mirror, and he’s just about to say, “Fuck it” and sprint after them in his tassel loafers and dress slacks when he feels a _tap-tap_ on his bicep.

It’s Horse-face.

“Bit of a tough break, that,” she nods sympathetically at Fine’s parking space.

Ford rubs his chin., watching the corner, praying she’ll come back. Of course, she doesn’t.

“Fuckin’ wanker.”

“Wanker! Ha - that’s a really funny insult.” She punches him lightly in the arm.

“Ow,” she shakes her hand.

He tries to keep the growl out of his voice as he rounds on her. “Can I help you with something, luv?”

She shrinks back a little even as she chatters animatedly, “Actually, I was just going to have lunch. Brought some leftover Mexican. I didn’t make it - I’m not Mexican.”

She rolls her eyes at herself. “Obviously. Well, I suppose I could be half-Mexican.”

“I’m not,” she assures him with a hand on his arm.

Why’s she touching him so much?

“Not that there’s anything wrong with being half-Mexican!” she rushes to add. “I once had a boyfriend who was half-Samoan. Well, not really a boyfriend. More of a romantic interest. Bit of a one-sided affair. It was Dwayne Johnson.”

_What in the fuckin’ hell?_

“Anyway, it’s not really enough to share - the Mexican, I mean, not Dwayne Johnson. You wouldn’t want to share that. Or maybe you would-”

His eyebrows reach for the sky. “Excuse me?”

“- but Jenny’s on holiday and she has a Lean Cuisine in the freezer. I’m sure she won’t mind so long as we replace it -”

_Jesus, she’s completely barkers._

“Nancy -”

“Hm? Oh, right, you probably want to go punch holes in the wall or shoot lots of rounds at practice targets or do some other sexy angry-” she grits her teeth, eying his arms as she makes bear claws with her hands, “thing-”

“Nancy!” He takes a deep breath, tries to reign in his temper.

“Yes, sir!” she squeaks, looking equal parts delighted and terrified.

He is going to regret this, he can already tell by the pounding between his eyes.

_Fuck it. What the hell._

“Would you like to ‘ave lunch with me? Know a place round the corner where we can get a decent fish and gravy.”

“Would I!” She fans herself. “Abso- _lutely_!”

She loops her arm through his, beaming down at him.

_Got quite a set of teeth, this one._

“You’re Cress’s ’andler, aren’t you?” he asks as they start off for his car.

“Oh yes, yes that’s right!” She leans into him as they walk, positively thrilled as she whispers, “Did you know his body is _completely_ hairless?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ruh-roh! Way to stick your foot in it, Ford. 
> 
> *Pastel sits on top of her horse, tips the brim of her hat up as she looks across the plain at the dark clouds on the horizon*  
> Storms a-brewin'. 
> 
> My suggestion, Ford: wear a cup.


	22. Let's Do Lunch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Hubs, for correcting my chess game :)

“It’s just… I can’t believe he said that!”

 

At his disapproving look, Susan covers her mouth with her hand and whispers through her fingers, “Sorry.”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Fine holds out his hand reassuringly even as he sends an apologetic glance around the restaurant. _Please forgive my companion_ , it says.

 

Susan is careful to keep her voice down this time, fidgeting with her silverware as she asks, “Why- why would he say those things?”

 

Fine takes a sip of his cab, savoring the earthy notes before he says, “Jealousy.”

_Pawn to E4._

 

“Jealousy?” Susan cocks her head, center of her brow wrinkling in confusion.

 

 _Adorable_ , Fine thinks fondly.

 

“Yes, jealousy.” He stacks his hands, careful to hide his gaudy timepiece under his French cuff. “It’s not hard to figure out: Rick probably assumes there are…” He looks around the restaurant for the right word. “ _Feelings_ , between us. That’s all he thinks men and women are capable of.”

“Sexual relations,” Fine clarifies when Susan’s head tilts at a nearly forty-five degree angle.

 

Her eyes widen. “Nooo - he doesn’t - that’s ridic - I would never... _cheat_ on-!”

 

“You have to remember, Coop, that we’re not dealing with a very sizable intellect here,” Fine reminds her in a bored tone, eyes on their waiter.

 

Her soft, “Hey! That’s not-” is cut off by the waiter.

 

“Ready to decide, monsieur?”

 

“Yes. I’ll have the filet, medium-rare, lightly seared, and the fig salad. She’ll have the tossed field greens and the salmon, blackened.”

 

“Very good, sir,” the waiter nods, carefully plucking up their menus.

 

Susan seems reluctant to let hers go. “Oh, I- I don’t really like salmon… Not that I have anything against it, or serving it, or people who eat it, I just-”

 

Fine waves his hand to dismiss the waiter and assures her, “That’s because you haven’t had good salmon.”

 

He pats his stomach lightly, telling her in a campy whisper and his _trust-me_ tone, “You’ll like it. It’s lighter.”

 

“Oh! Haha, I- sure. Lighter is better!” She cringes a little at how loud her tone is. In a quiet murmur, she asks, “So you think Rick is… jealous, of the two of us?”

 

“Ford has always been envious of my success, it’s true.” He sighs, _Can you blame him?_  “And my personability.”

 

_Bishop to C4._

 

He does love a good Giuoco Piano.

 

“Actually,” Susan looks nervous, like she’s working up the nerve to contradict him. “He’s pretty well-liked, at least I think, and people seem to trust-”

 

“Liked by whom?” Fine snorts. “Patrick? Please. The analysts in the basement? Makes sense - he’s slept with half of them, and the other half are waiting their turn.”

Susan visibly flinches at that. “Wha- no. That’s-that's just a rumor.” She shifts in her chair, cheeks flushing as she admonishes him gently, "Geez, Fine. Could you- dial it back a notch?"

 

“I'm sorry, Susan. That was... out of line." He waits for her to absorb his apology, using a soft, imploring tone as he persists. "The fact is, rumors are often founded in truth, Cooper.”

 

Seeing her shoulders slump forward, he reaches across the table and takes her hand. _Poor thing._ “The man is a well-known philanderer. When I met him, he didn’t call his… paramours by their names. He called them by the countries they lived in. France, Spain, Peru. He used to say Cairo was his favorite. Idiot had no idea Cairo is a city.”

_Queen to F3._

 

Susan carefully tugs her hand out of his, bringing it to her lap and wringing it with the other.

 

Fine rubs his neck, thinking back to the headlock Ford put him in this morning. Remembering Sharon’s smug little smile and Patrick’s gleeful smirk.

 

“You know what I think, Coop?” he says in a conspiratorial tone.

 

She hesitates. “...what?”

 

“I think Ford is suspicious of our professional camaraderie because of guilt.”

 

_Check._

 

He feels a ping of triumph when Susan leans in a little, eyes wide. “What do you mean?”

 

“His level of personal involvement with Sharon is a little more than _professional interest_ , wouldn’t you say?”

 

“Level of- what?”

 

“Surely, you’ve heard the talk,” Fine says as the waiter sets their plates down.

 

She leans around the waiter’s arm with a quick glance and a soft, _Thank you so much_ before she presses, “What talk?”

 

“About how - or rather, _why_ \- Sharon was hired. Ford got her that job; she was completely unqualified.” Before Susan can interject, Fine continues, “He moved her here, to DC. Her and her son. He got her that job at Langley, and in all the time she’s worked there, has she ever worked with another agent? Never.”

 

He remembers telling Sharon if she’d ever like to see how it’s really done, she could _handle_ him sometime. And he remembers dabbing the spit off his suit lapel with a four dollar bottle of Perrier before his nine o’clock meeting.

 

_Bitch._

 

“No,” Susan waves her hand, _Don’t be ridiculous_. “They’re just friends. They worked together before, in Baghdad. He knew her husband, be-before he was killed.”

 

“Ah, is that it? Well, my mistake, then. How noble of him - looking after the wife of a dead friend. An unexpected touch of humanity from a man who never does anything without expecting something in return.” Fine arches an eyebrow, catching the frown at the corners of her mouth despite her casual shrug, and thinks he doesn’t need to push it further.

 

_Checkmate._

 

Susan was soft and impressionable. Sharp as a tack, but lacking any real _street smarts_ , as they called it. Anyway, it was for her own good.

_The ruffian doesn’t deserve her._

 

“Anyway,” she says lightly, laying her napkin across her lap and trying to hide her dubious look at her salmon behind her hair, “I don’t think she’s his type.”

 

That gets a genuine chuckle out of Fine. “Type?”

 

Rick Ford, with a type. Hysterical.

 

Susan blushes, muttering, “I meant, he doesn’t- he’s not really into-”

 

“Susan.” The use of her first name catches her attention. He takes her hand again, eyes softening at her lost expression. “Do you know what your problem is?”

 

She blinks, eyes getting bigger and glossier in the light as she sniffs. “No?”

 

“You see the best in people. Even people who don’t deserve it.” He lays his other hand on his chest in a grand gesture, giving her a charming smile as he says softly, “And thank God you do, for my sake.”

 

She smiles shyly. “Oh, stop. Really, Fine - you're wrong about Rick. He's-” She tilts her head side-to-side as she considers with a small, affectionate smile, "a little rough around the edges. But he lo-cares about me. I know he does."

 

“I'm sure he does. He'd be a fool not to." He pauses. "Just... Please be careful. I hate to see you get hurt.” He squeezes her hand. “I’d be lost without you, Coop. You’re my guiding light.”

 

She ducks her head. “Well, we- we make a great team!”

 

He retracts his hand with a warm smile. “Absolutely.”

 

Digging into his filet, he glances up and notices she’s pushing her salad leaves around her plate. “You haven’t touched your salmon.”

 

“Oh!” She takes a hearty bite, concealing a wince behind a smile. Hiding her mouth behind her hand she assures him, “It’s great!”

 

____________________________________________________________________________

 

“The trouble with Fine,” Nancy says around a mouthful of mash, “is that he has some sort of… I don’t know... _sway_ over Susan-” She looks at Ford quizzically. “Know what I mean?”

 

Ford snorts bitterly, poking at his fish. “It’s been mentioned a time-or-two, yeah.”

 

“Right,” Nancy nods sagely. She gestures in the air with her fork. “Fine’s got this… what would you call it? Air of bullshit, that’s it-”

 

Ford lets out a startled guffaw at that.

 

_Not a fan of Fancy either, is she?_

 

“- charmer who’s actually a talentless moron-” She stops suddenly, eyes wide like she’s realized what she’s just said. “Please don’t report me.”

 

He waves her off. “Won’t get any arguments from me.”

 

She leans across the table, managing to get considerably close with her height. Ford resists the urge to lean away. “Did you know he doesn’t even type his own debriefs? He _dictates_ them to her.”

 

“What?” The thought makes his gut clench. He tries to imagine Sharon’s reaction to being told to take dictation. He’s not sure he’d survive it. “Why’s she put up with that shit?”

 

Nancy saws off another piece of sausage as she considers. “It probably has something to do with her mother.”

 

_Susan’s mother?_

 

“What about ‘er? Fancy remind ‘er of ‘er mum? They wear the same dress or somethin’?”

 

Nancy gives him a look, _Naughty boy_. “You know, you’re wittier than people give you credit for.”

 

He grins. “Nah. S’a fluke.”

 

She smiles. “I’m sure.”

 

He takes a sip of his Kingfisher, glancing out the window at the sky. He was kissing Susan in the park this morning, holding her hand at the diner. Making love to her last night, stroking his fingers through her hair and cupping her cheek and telling her he loves her.

 

Susan, smiling up at him as she climbed into the car.

 

Susan, dragging that chair over for Fine.

 

Susan, sitting in Fine’s car, her hand in Fine’s, looking into his eyes -

 

Suddenly, the smell of fish and vinegar turns his stomach. Pushing the basket aside, he scrubs a hand over his head. Crossing his arms on the table in front of him, he sighs. “‘ow do I fix this?”

 

Nancy pauses in her cutting and blinks, enunciating each syllable loudly and clearly, “You apol-o-gize.”

 

He sits up straighter, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “For which part?”

 

She looks like she can’t believe what he’s just said. “ _All_ of it!”

 

He snorts viciously, feeling his hackles rise. “But I’m not, am I? You said so yourself,” he jabs his finger at her, “Fine’s a fuckin’ snake-in-the-grass wanker-”

 

“- well, I didn’t say that, exactly -”

 

“- and I’ll not apologize for tellin’ ‘er the truth, no matter ‘ow ‘ard it is for ‘er to swallow!” He ends with a defiant jut of his chin in the air. _So there_.

 

The look Nancy gives him is almost pitying. “Look, Ford - it doesn’t matter if it’s _the truth_ or not,” she makes air quotes, “you’ve hurt Susan’s feelings.”

 

That pinches. His shoulders drop, the righteous anger and indignation bolstering him up for the last hour evaporates, and he feels limp. Tired.

 

Nancy reaches across the table and takes his hand in hers. “Susan’s brilliant, she’ll figure out the truth about Fine in her own time -”

 

Sharon’s words echo in his mind, _You can try and discredit him until you’re blue-in-the-face, and all it will do is push her further and further away_.

 

“- what she needs is someone to support her. To inspire her to believe in herself.”

 

He exhales long through his nose and nods. “You’re right.” Considering it, he adds, "S'not bad advice."

 

“I watch a lot of Oprah,” she confides.

 

He gives her a half-smile. “Apologize, aye?” He rubs his chin. “Don’t like the sound of that.”

 

“Well,” she squeezes his hand, gives it a light _pat-pat_. “You will, or it’s not just the truth she won’t swallow.”

 

He barks a laugh at that.

 

She starts to clarify, “What I mean is-”

 

He holds out his hand. “I got what you meant, Nancy.”

 

She takes another bite of her mash, looking thoughtful as she chews. She catches his eye and asks, “Did you really make love to a woman on a moving jet ski?”

 

Ford sucks his teeth. “Twice.”

 

“While the whole right side of your body-” she takes a long look at his right arm and chest, “was paralyzed from a jellyfish sting?”

 

“No,” he shakes his head, pausing for effect. “The jet ski was after runnin’ for twelve hours straight. You're thinkin’ of the time I made love to a woman on a demolition crane.”

 

She thinks about it a moment, and then nods. “Oh yes, that’s right.” **  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought the rest of the story wouldn't make sense without revealing Fines - ahem - "master plot" straight from the jackass's mouth. *shudders* I don't want to write from *that* POV ever again.
> 
> Twat.
> 
> God I hate this part...


End file.
